Murder, Plain and Simple

by Isabella Alan

  “Aren’t they great?” Willow said. “I’m thrilled with the number of submissions.”

  I stepped in front of the largest watermelon. It had a bright blue ribbon taped to its side; “230 lbs.” was written in black marker on the ribbon. “Two hundred and thirty pounds? That’s more than my dad weighs, and he’s a big guy.”

  Willow laughed.

  The podium (I guess that’s what you would call the platform the watermelon was on) was a tower of forklift slates stacked five high. The slates were worn and had seen better days. “Are you sure those slates can hold that monster?”

  Willow waved my concern away. “No more dillydallying. The competition starts in three minutes.” She gave me a little shove. “Get over there.”

  I stumbled around the giant watermelons. The one in the middle was by far the largest. The rest ranged from eighty to a hundred pounds. I wondered what the winning farmer fed the watermelon to have it grow that large. Steroids?

  Willow was right. The eating competition was a big draw. Forty or so guests sat in folding chairs in front of the five anxious watermelon eaters. Another ten to fifteen spectators stood behind the chairs. Willow handed me a stopwatch. “You hit this, you say ‘go,’ and you hit it again when the first person finishes. That’s the winner.” She clapped her hands. “This is so exciting!”

  I smiled at the contestants, but they didn’t smile back. They were in the zone. “That sounds simple enough,” I told Willow.

  “Wonderful.” She hooked a thumb at the contestants. “Keep an eye on them too. Make sure they really eat the watermelon. I don’t want any cheaters to harm the integrity of my contest.”

  I chuckled. “Cheaters?”

  “You’d be surprised. I bet one of them tries to pull a fast one, like tossing the watermelon under the table.” She pointed at Oliver. “You better keep him to the side. He might accidentally aid a competitor by eating watermelon that falls on the ground.”

  Tossing watermelon? How violent did Willow think this competition would be? “I’ll keep him out of range.”

  She tapped the face of her watch. “It’s showtime.”

  “I thought I was the timekeeper.”

  “Oh no. You are running this whole thing. I’ll give you an intro and then you’re off.”

  “Thank you . . . I think.”

  Willow stepped in front of the contestants and held out her arm. Her blouse flowed around her like the dry-ice smoke around the carved watermelons. “Hello, everyone! Welcome to the First Annual Watermelon Fest. We have so many exciting events planned for you, and we are kicking things off with the watermelon-eating contest.” She beamed over her shoulder at the contestants. “Are you ready?”

  The four men and one woman nodded. In front of each contestant there was a fifteen-pound watermelon that had been cut in half, a large tablespoon, bottles of water, and a soup bowl. I wasn’t sure what the soup bowl was for.

  Willow beamed. “I’m pleased to introduce you to our newest member of the Rolling Brook business community, Angela Braddock.”

  Tepid claps came from the crowd. How long would it take for them to eat the watermelon? Fifteen minutes? Twenty?

  “Angie, if you will do us the honors? By counting us down?”

  I cleared my throat and used my best outdoor voice. “The competition will begin on the count of three. Ready? One! Two! Three! Go!”

  I hit the on button of the stopwatch and the contestants dug into their watermelons with such ferocity I had to look away. Unfortunately, I soon learned what the bowls were for as contestants started to spit black watermelon seeds into them. Some of them didn’t have the best aim, and the spectators in the front row were showered with watermelon seeds.

  Oliver whimpered and hid behind a horse stall. Five minutes into the contest, the eating began to slow. The four male contestants, all built like amateur bodybuilders, groaned as they tried to maneuver their spoons. One had his forehead resting on the table.

  The woman ignored her competitors and dug into the watermelon with methodical concentration. Another ten minutes passed. Two of the men had run off in the direction of the Porta Potties when the woman held up her spoon in victory. “Done!”

  I hit the stopwatch. Most of the spectators had wandered off by this point. Watching someone become sick over watermelon wasn’t all that exciting. I decided if Willow held the competition next year, she would have to spice it up, like have the contestants eat watermelon while running a race. At least it would be more interesting.

  Willow clapped her hands. “What a thrilling contest! Timekeeper, what is our winner’s official time?”

  “Twenty-four minutes and forty-six seconds.”

  The girl picked a seed from her cheek. “What do I win?”

  Willow reached into her purse for an envelope. “You won a thirty-dollar gift certificate to any of the participating shops in Rolling Brook.”

  Frowning, the girl took the envelope. I would be disappointed too. Her effort deserved at least a fifty-dollar gift certificate.

  Willow turned to the handful of spectators still in the folding chairs. “Please enjoy the rest of your visit to our lovely little town of Rolling Brook.”

  The sad remainder of the crowd dispersed.

  Willow beamed. “That went well—don’t you think?”

  “Yep. I should go check on the quilting circle,” I said. “Anna and the others should have the quilt frame up by now.”

  She nodded and floated away. Behind me someone tapped my shoulder. “Mind giving me a quote about the eating contest for the paper?” Danny asked.

  “Tortoise wins the race again,” I said, and started to walk toward the entrance of the tent.

  As I expected, he followed me. “Are you going to tell me anything about the fire at your house last night?” he asked.

  I wasn’t the least bit surprised he knew about it. “No one was hurt, and the fire department had it under control within minutes.”

  Jonah pulled one of his twins off the giant watermelon in the middle of the room. The slates gave a little under the boy’s extra weight but held. Jonah reprimanded his son in their language.

  “What about the kerosene?” Danny asked as we stepped outside the barn.

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  The quilt frame was up and eight ladies sat around it, quilting on their little section. Anna held court and the women nodded their prayer-cap-covered heads and laughed at the story she told in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  He grabbed my arm. “Come on. That is Elijah Knepp’s signature. Did he do it?”

  I jerked my arm away from him. “You are the investigative reporter, Danny. You tell me.”

  Danny glared at me. “We had a deal that we were going to help each other.”

  “Yes, we had a deal until you left me stranded by the Walker place.”

  “Okay, I admit that was a little childish. Can we start again?”

  “Danny, I don’t have time for this today.”

  “Have you found the deed to the quilt shop? Even without Joseph around, the Walkers could still dispute your claim to it.”

  I ignored his question.

  He chuckled. “I’ll take that as a no. If you find it, I suggest you put it in a safety-deposit box at the bank. That’s much safer than your aunt’s methods.”

  I hadn’t thought about that before. Would sweet Abigail try to take the shop from me?

  “I don’t have anything more to tell you.”

  “We had a deal!” He glared at me, and for the first time, he didn’t remind me of a spoiled teenager. In the teenager’s place was a fully grown, angry man. “Maybe you should listen to your mother and go to Texas and marry that lawyer.”

  “H-how do you know about that?” I’d never spoken to Danny about Ryan. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in Rolling Brook about Ryan, not eve
n Rachel or Anna.

  “Is there a problem here?” Farley sauntered up to us. Despite the hot weather, he wore a three-piece suit with a pocket watch on a chain. I imagine he chose the outfit because it was in keeping with how he thought a township trustee should dress. But instead of looking the part of small-town official, he looked like a Victorian who had been dropped from outer space.

  He still made my skin crawl, but in this case, I was happy to see him.

  I smiled. “Not at all. Danny’s asking for quotes about the Watermelon Fest. You two should talk. I’m sure you can tell him all about it, Farley.”

  The trustee’s chest puffed out. “Yes, I can. It was my idea after all.” He wrapped an arm around Danny’s shoulder. “Let’s talk.” He led Danny away.

  Danny glared at me over the trustee’s arm, and I offered him a little finger wave before joining the quilting circle.

  Oliver headed straight for Anna’s side. I think he remembered the beef jerky from the buggy.

  Rachel stood up from her folding chair. “Angie, so many of the people have stopped to take flyers about Running Stitch. They are really excited about the quilting classes.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, hope growing in me that the quilt shop would be a success after all. “And thank you and Aaron for letting Mattie work at my shop. I know you rely on her.”

  She smiled. “We do, but I told my husband, Mattie needs to do something she wants right now until she can find her feet again.”

  I gave her a hug and waved to the rest of the ladies. “Thank you all for taking part in the bee.”

  “It is our pleasure,” an elderly Amish woman said. “When Anna Graber calls in a favor, you jump.”

  Anna shook her head. “Bea, you act like I keep a scorecard.”

  “You don’t?” The other woman cackled.

  “Can you stay and quilt some?” Anna patted the top of the quilt. I could see the blue outline where she’d marked the watermelon pattern.

  “I hope to. I need to go back to the shop and grab my quilting kit and see how Mattie’s doing.” I touched the quilt topper. “Anna, this is beautiful. Willow told me you agreed to make a watermelon pattern, but I never expected anything like this. It’s a piece of art. The watermelons look like they could roll right off into the grass.”

  “Hush, now. It is nothing.” Anna slipped Oliver a piece of dried meat from her basket. He chomped it down.

  “When it’s finished, I want to hang it in the shop.” I didn’t say so, but it would fit in the space where my aunt’s wedding ring quilt once hung.

  “I saw you talking to Danny Nicolson.” Sarah threaded her needle. “Did he write the profile on you yet?”

  I frowned. “Not yet.”

  Sarah adjusted her glasses. “I’m surprised. He asked dozens of questions about you. He should have more than enough material by now.”

  “Maybe he’s concentrating on the murder story,” Rachel said.

  “What type of questions did he ask?”

  “He wanted to know where you were from and what your background was.” Sarah made five tiny, straight stitches. “He wanted to know why you came to Rolling Brook. I told him because you inherited Running Stitch from your aunt.”

  “Was that the end of it?”

  “No. I got the impression he thought there was more to it than that.” Her needle flew through the next straight line on the pattern. “He said that he was going to get to the bottom of the real story.”

  “That is the real story.” I pivoted back toward the barn. Danny and Farley were no longer there. Had the reporter been checking up on me? Was that how he knew about Ryan?

  I wanted to question Sarah more, but Martha came across the lawn to the circle.

  “Martha,” Anna exclaimed. “I’m so glad you changed your mind and came.” She patted the seat of the empty folding chair next to her. “We have a spot for you.”

  I tensed up at Anna’s offer. None of the quilters knew about Martha’s involvement in Joseph’s death. I hoped to keep it that way, not so much for Martha, but for my aunt. Whatever she may have done to me, Martha had cared for the shop when Aenti needed her and I would always be grateful to her for that.

  Martha clutched the handle of her basket. “I can’t stay. I only dropped by to share my good news.” She positioned her body to purposely cut me out of the conversation.

  Rachel frowned at me.

  “What’s that?” Sarah asked, leaning forward. She was always ready for news, good or bad.

  “I signed a lease to rent Joseph’s old woodworking shop from Abigail Walker.”

  “You can do woodwork?” Sarah asked.

  I had a bad feeling about this. Clearly Abigail had no idea of Martha’s part in her husband’s death.

  “Of course not,” Martha said. “I’m opening a quilt shop in the space. It should be up and running in a few weeks.”

  I gasped. “But that’s right next to Running Stitch.”

  She sidestepped so that she could see me. “It is, but I thought Rolling Brook deserved to have an authentic Amish quilt shop in town, not one run by an Englischer.”

  My mouth fell open.

  To the quilters, she said, “I hope you will all come to my grand opening in a few weeks, and I will be starting my own quilting circle. I hope you will consider joining.” She nodded and went on her way.

  Was Rolling Brook big enough for dueling quilt shops and dueling quilting circles? Things had not gone well for Joseph Walker’s and Old Ben’s dueling furniture shops, and those two buildings had been a block away from each other, not right next door.

  I felt eight sets of eyes on me—make that nine, counting Oliver’s. “Competition is good for business, right?” I said.

  Chapter Forty-one

  When Oliver and I entered Running Stitch a few minutes later, there were six customers in the store. Mattie helped a woman with red hair select an infant quilt. “This would make a beautiful baby gift for any mother-to-be.” Her Pennsylvania Dutch accent was thicker than normal, as if she knew the sound of her voice would increase chances of a sale.

  The woman held the corner of the mint green and periwinkle quilt in her fingers, considering it. “This is for my first grandchild. You can’t help but spoil the first one, can you?”

  “Congratulations.” Mattie gave her a dazzling smile. “A special gift like this for your daughter would be perfect.”

  I slid behind the counter and began packing my sewing basket for the quilting bee. With Mattie to mind the shop, I felt free to go back. Maybe I could track down Danny and ask him why he’d been snooping into my personal life.

  A woman with a variety of spools of thread approached the counter. “I love your store,” she gushed. “Quilting is such a talent. I wish I knew how. The best I can do is hem my husband’s trousers.”

  I rang up her purchase and stuck everything into a small brown handled shopping bag. “I plan to offer quilting classes in a month or so.”

  Her eyes lit up. “That sounds wonderful.” She waved over her shoulder at her friends. “Girls, the shop might offer quilting classes. We’d come back for those, wouldn’t we?”

  “Oh yes, absolutely,” one gushed.

  I smiled but it felt halfhearted. The women chose my shop now, but would they choose Running Stitch with Martha’s authentic quilting shop right next door?

  I grabbed a pad of paper from under the counter. “If you want to write down your names and e-mail addresses, I can e-mail you the class schedule when it’s ready.”

  All five women quickly signed the paper. After they left, the soon-to-be grandma approached the counter with the baby quilt nestled in her arms. “I’ll take this.”

  I rang her up and congratulated her on her grandchild. Finally, Mattie and I were the only ones left in the room.

  “You’re hired,” I said.
/>   Mattie picked up the feather duster and ran it along the fabric shelves. “I am?”

  “Yes, that was a great sale.”

  She laughed. “That was nothing. I once talked someone at the bakery into buying five dozen cookies instead of two.”

  “You’re a born salesperson.”

  “I’d like to take some of those quilting classes when you offer them.”

  “Great,” I said as I collected my needles and thread for the quilting bee.

  “Angie?” Mattie asked in a small voice.

  My head snapped up. A tear slid down her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

  “Was there a fire at your house last night?”

  “How’d you find out about it?”

  “A lady from Millersburg said there was a fire in the middle of the night in her neighborhood. When she said what street the fire had been on, I knew it had to be yours.”

  “It wasn’t my house. It was Oliver’s doghouse.”

  Oliver whimpered.

  Mattie knelt by the dog and fondled his ears. “I’m sorry, Oliver.” She tilted her head up to me. “Did Elijah do it?”

  “We don’t know for certain, but the police think he might have done it. There was an Amish canister of kerosene at the scene.”

  She stood up. “Elijah,” she whispered.

  I set my sewing basket on the counter. “Did he ever hurt you?”

  Her head snapped up. “It’s not something the Amish speak of.”

  I took that as a yes.

  “I saw him yesterday,” Mattie said.

  “Where? When?” My voice was sharp.

  She swallowed. “At the Walker barn after supper. It was dusk.”

  That put their meeting somewhere around the nine o’clock hour. Long before the doghouse fire.

  “I went there to tell him I couldn’t see him again. I told him I prayed about it and needed to make a change. I didn’t believe Gott wanted us together. We both needed a fresh start. If Gott brought Elijah and me together later in our days, he would. If he didn’t, it wasn’t meant to be.”