Plain Death

by Flower, Amanda

  Tap, tap sounded on my bedroom door. Becky slipped into the room. “Chloe? Are you awake?”

  I sat up against the headboard. “What’s wrong?” As if I needed to ask.

  Gig ran into the room and jumped on my bed. He seemed to know that Becky needed him that night and had chosen to sleep with her. He climbed on my pillows and bumped his head on my shoulder. I knew Becky needed what comfort he could offer, but I was glad to have the cat in my room again. I missed his weight on my pillow.

  “I can’t sleep,” Becky whispered. She looked like a ghost as she moved across the room in her white nightgown. The gown reflected the yellow streetlamp light coming in through my window.

  I pulled my knees up to my chest, shivering against the unknown. “That’s understandable.”

  She sat on the end of my bed. “What about Cookie?”

  “You want a cookie? Do we have any? I can get you one.”

  “Not cookies. I mean Cookie, the person.”

  I racked my sleep-deprived brain. Was there a Cookie I was supposed to remember? It didn’t sound like an Amish name. “Becky, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is Cookie?”

  “That’s right, I didn’t tell you why I was driving the car.”

  “You said you had an interview.”

  “The interview was with Cookie and her husband, Scotch. They own a greenhouse outside of town.”

  I held up my hand. “Are you making these names up?”

  She giggled, but then her voice faded. “She must think I’m horrible for missing the interview. She will never give me a job now.” The draft from my standup fan caught her white-blonde hair, moving it back and forth.

  “Becky, that’s the least of your worries. You can call Cookie tomorrow and explain. I’m sure she will understand. Anyone would.”

  She started to cry. “I’m so sorry, Chloe. No one will ever know how sorry I am.” Her cries turned to sobs, her body shuddering with each breath. She collapsed face down on the bed, and I reached for her good arm, holding it. Gigabyte curled up beside her and purred with the ferocity of a motorboat. I prayed as hard for Becky as I did the day of my mother’s accident.

  Soon, Becky fell into slumber. Just before I drifted off, a truck backfired outside my window.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  My eyes popped open. Gig jumped off my pillow and hid. Becky, curled up like a cat, slept soundly at the foot of my bed.

  In the early morning, I slipped out of bed quietly, zipped a hoodie over my pajamas, and went downstairs. Through the peephole Chief Rose smiled at me. I opened the door. Already dressed in her uniform, she carried a small tote bag in her hand that I recognized as Becky’s.

  “Good morning, Miss Humphrey. Is Miss Troyer here? I’d like to talk to both of you.”

  “Come in. Becky’s upstairs. I’ll go get her. Please make yourself comfortable.” I pointed at the one armchair in the living room. “I’m sorry I don’t have more furniture.”

  “I can stand.”

  I hurried upstairs and into my bedroom. Becky wasn’t there. I found her in her own room on the bed. “The police are here.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Are they taking me away?”

  “I don’t know.” I picked up a long canvas skirt from the milk crate, which served as her dresser, and handed it to her. “Get dressed.”

  I dashed into my bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans, a clean T-shirt, and zipped up the hoodie again. Becky met me in the hall wearing the skirt and a bright blue T-shirt. Her long blonde hair was secured at the nape of her neck in a tight bun.

  When Becky and I entered the living room, Chief Rose was examining the photographs on the mantel over the fireplace. She set down the photograph of my mother, and I gritted my teeth. “Let me grab some more chairs.” I escaped to the kitchen where I took a few deep breaths, and returned with two wooden chairs, placing them across from the chief who now sat in the armchair. I sat in one, and Becky perched on the edge of the other.

  Chief Rose reached into Becky’s tote bag and pulled out my GPS, Pepper. Still in her protective black case, she didn’t appear any worse for wear. The chief leaned over and handed it to me. “I thought you might need this seeing as how you got lost on the way home from the hospital yesterday.”

  I tensed and opened the case. The GPS was fine. “Thank you for returning it.”

  “I took the liberty to change the mode to ‘on foot’ since you don’t have a car to use anymore.”

  My brow wrinkled, and I cocked my head in her direction.

  She handed the tote bag to Becky. “We found this in the RAV4 too.”

  Becky grabbed the tote and opened it. “My sketchbook,” she cried. “Thank you so much.”

  The chief nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  “You don’t need these things for”—I paused—“evidence?”

  Chief Rose shook her head. “I’m sure you are wondering why I’m here this early.” She placed a hand on each knee and leaned forward. “It’s not to return your things.”

  Gigabyte peeked his head out from around the kitchen wall, then disappeared.

  The police chief cleared her throat. “We examined the car and discovered something.”

  I straightened. “What?”

  “Prior to the accident, your car’s brake line had been cut three quarters of the way through.”

  My stomach dropped. Good thing Becky hadn’t made breakfast yet. I doubted it would have stayed in my stomach after the police chief made that announcement.

  Becky’s brow puckered. “What does that mean?”

  Chief Rose stood and picked up a vase from the mantel, spinning it in her hand. “It means sabotage. It means a premeditated crime.”

  I inhaled a deep breath. “It also means the accident wasn’t Becky’s fault.”

  She set the vase back on the mantel. “Yes.”

  “Praise God,” I said.

  Becky’s mouth hung open.

  Chief Rose glowered at Becky. “You are still in trouble, Becky. Driving without a license is a serious offense. I don’t take that lightly.”

  Becky bowed her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  The chief returned to the armchair and sat on the edge of it. “Do you know anyone who might want to hurt you?” She directed her question at me.

  I blinked at her. “Me?”

  “The severed brake line was inside your car. It’s safe to assume whoever cut it thought you would be behind the wheel. In fact, if Becky hadn’t borrowed it,” she made quote signs with her fingers, “you’d have been the one in the accident.”

  A chill ran down my spine. The green pickup. It had to be them. My stomach rumbled. Yes, it was definitely good that I hadn’t eaten anything yet.

  Becky’s eyes watered. “Chloe, you could have been killed.”

  And Bishop Glick would still be alive.

  Becky shook her head and played with the end of her braid. “Chloe just moved here. No one would want to hurt her.”

  I thought back to my encounter with Brock and his sidekick in the hospital parking lot. “There might be someone.”

  Becky looked up, one eyebrow raised.

  A grin formed on Chief Rose’s mouth. She leaned forward again and placed her elbows on her knees. I scooted my chair back an inch.

  “Tell me who you suspect,” she said.

  “It goes back to my first day in Knox County.” I told Chief Rose how Becky and I met and about my run-in with the two thugs in the hospital parking lot.

  “Describe the men.” The chief removed a small notebook from her breast pocket and jotted down notes.

  “One is thin, kind of wiry. They both had dark hair, but the wiry guy had a dirty blond goatee. The other one was clean shaven. He h
ad the face of a twelve-year-old, but he was enormous. He looked like he could wrestle a bear to the ground if he ever had the need.”

  Chief Rose smiled a little at the description.

  “I know his name. The thin one called him Brock.”

  “It must be Brock Buckley.” The police chief stopped just short of rubbing her hands together. “Your description fits him to a T. If it is Brock, dollars to donuts the other man is Curt Fanning.”

  “Do you know them?” Becky asked.

  “I’ve picked them up for disorderly conduct more times than I can count. Murder is new for them.”

  I cocked my chin. “You think they meant to kill the bishop?”

  “Not the bishop. You.”

  My body began to shake the way it did whenever I had to speak in front a large group of people—a constant, full body shiver. I tensed my muscles in an effort to make the shaking stop, but it didn’t help. I prayed, too, needing to be in control. Disorderly conduct and harassing Becky was one thing . . . but murder?

  Chief Rose leaned back in the armchair. “They have a well-earned reputation in the county, but let’s not jump to conclusions. We need a positive ID before we move forward.”

  She stared at me until I broke eye contact.

  “I need you to come to my station and view some photos.”

  “Is it very far?” I held up Pepper as evidence. “I don’t have a car anymore, remember?”

  She shook her head. “The police station is in the city hall building right on the square.”

  Easy walking distance. “Sure,” I said.

  “Great.” A smug smile played on Chief Rose’s lips. “I can take you there.”

  I bit the inside of my lip. “Okay.”

  “Can I go with her?” Becky asked.

  The chief shook her head. “No. I might need you to ID these men later, but I’d like Chloe to make a positive ID all by herself first.” She stood. “Are you ready, Chloe?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now. The sooner you make the ID, the sooner I can bring them in.”

  I took another breath and let it go. “Okay. I’m ready.” The shivering stopped, but the fear lingered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was Saturday, market day in Appleseed Creek. Buggies surrounded the town square, and Amish women sold homemade bread, canned jams and jellies, and fresh produce to their English neighbors and visitors. Chief Rose’s police car idled as a tour bus unloaded thirty elderly tourists in the middle of the street.

  “I hate market day,” the police chief said.

  Finally, the bus was emptied of passengers, and Chief Rose whooped her siren as she cut around it. She turned off the square and made an immediate left into an alley behind the town hall, a two-story, tan brick building with a rooster weathervane on top. There was a small patch of grass, maybe three feet wide, between the building and the road with a flagpole sticking out of it. Red geraniums decorated white boxes below first-floor windows. The American and Ohio flags flapped in the light breeze. A handful of cotton-like clouds bounced across an otherwise clear, blue sky. The weatherman had been right—it was cooler than the day before.

  Chief Rose parked in the spot labeled “Chief.” From the parking lot, two doors led into the building, each labeled with forest green lettering. One read, CITY OFFICES, and the other, VILLAGE POLICE. So is Appleseed Creek a city or a village?

  The chief unlocked the village police door and flicked on the lights. A scarred-up metal desk sat in the corner of the waiting room with a ten-year-old CPU monitor and computer on it next to a solid black telephone, circa 1980. A door in the middle of the back wall was flanked by windows on either side, their vertical blinds drawn. Wooden folding chairs lined the walls. Not much of an office. Where are the other officers?

  “We share a 911 system with the city of Mount Vernon.” Chief Rose spoke as if reading my mind. “If it’s minor enough, we respond; if not, we call on Mount Vernon or the Knox County sheriff’s department for support. If it has something to do with Harshberger College, which most of our calls do, we work in conjunction with campus security.”

  She used the royal “we” even though she was the only one here.

  She stopped and regarded me. “I have two officers, in case you’re wondering, but they are both busy today keeping an eye on the farmers’ market. It’s always good to have a police presence there. You never know when city folk are going to put up a fight over the price of watermelon.” She kept a straight face when she said that.

  The chief sorted through her key ring, found what she needed, and unlocked the second door, which opened into a meeting room. A long cafeteria-type table sat in the middle of the room surrounded by more wooden folding chairs. “Have a seat. I’ll grab the photos.”

  I sat, careful not to pinch myself on the chair. The chief unlocked a third door and slipped through, closing it behind her before I could see inside. Seconds later she returned, carrying a three-inch black binder.

  She sat catty-corner from me at the table and placed the binder on the table. “How’s Becky doing?”

  “She’s upset.” I stopped myself from telling her what a stupid question that was. How does the chief think Becky is?

  “She seemed better this morning than I expected her to.”

  My brow wrinkled.

  “I assumed she would be more upset, considering her relationship with Isaac Glick.”

  “I thought I came here to check photos, not to talk about how Becky is doing. If you wanted to do that, why didn’t you ask her when you were at my house?” I frowned. “How would you know about Becky and Bishop Glick’s son anyway?” I moved my seat a few inches back from the table.

  “The Amish aren’t as closemouthed as some would think.” She tapped the cover of the binder with blunt, clear-polished nails. “There are other complications too, of course. Becky’s father could lose his chance to be a preacher. His grasp was already tentative with his two oldest children leaving the Amish life behind. Now, the Troyer family will always be associated with the death of a beloved bishop.”

  “What about the recent harassment of the Amish?” I asked. “The shotgun fire? The destruction of crops?”

  She raised one eyebrow. “How do you know about that?”

  “I heard the Troyer family discussing it, and I asked Timothy about it.”

  “For being here less than two weeks, you’ve gotten a lot closer to them than I ever have.”

  I remained steadfast. “What are you doing about the problems?”

  She scowled and blew out a long breath. “Everything I can. It’s hard to investigate the case when none of the witnesses will tell you what they saw. They are too busy ‘turning the other cheek’ to talk to me.”

  “But it could be related, right?”

  “Look at you. You’re like the Pippi Longstocking version of Nancy Drew.”

  I slapped both hands on the table. “Chief Rose, you came to my house this morning and basically told me that someone tried to kill me. Is it any surprise that I would have questions?”

  Her brows arched over her peridot-colored eyes. “Maybe I’ve been dealing with the Amish too long to know how a big-city girl like you would react.”

  “May I see the photographs, please?” I reached out my hand.

  She shrugged and slid the binder in front of me. “This is a book of thirty eight-by-ten mug shots. Look at each photo carefully. If you recognize one or both of the men who threatened you and Becky, let me know.”

  I opened the binder. The first photograph was a man with a blunt nose and a horizontal scar across his right cheek. I wondered if he moonlighted as a pirate. The next photo held the likeness of a glaring man with huge ears. Each picture was scarier than the last. I glanced up at Chief Rose. “Do all these guys live in Appleseed C
reek?”

  She didn’t answer my question, so I flipped to the next page. Brock’s dark eyes stared at me. I knew him right away. Even in the mug shot he looked like a giant teddy bear, which he was not. “This one,” I said. “This is the one called Brock.”

  She made a note in the spiral notebook in front of her. “Keep going.”

  I was a bit disappointed with her reaction but moved on. Three ugly mugs later, I reached the end of the notebook and viewed the last photograph—Brock’s friend. I’d know that dirty goatee anywhere. “This is the other one.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are positive on IDs?”

  “Yes.”

  She studied me with her disquieting green eyes for a long moment. Finally, she sat back. “You ID’d Brock Buckley and Curt Fanning, just as I thought.” She tapped her index finger on the dirty goatee guy’s nose. “Curt Fanning.” She flipped back through the binder and came to Brock’s photograph. “Brock Buckley.”

  For some reason, knowing their names gave me courage. As unknown men in the green pickup, they were terrifying, but now that they were Brock Buckley and Curt Fanning—real people however unsavory—they were just scary.

  The chief closed the binder. “We’ll pick them up and bring them in for questioning.” She slipped her hand into the breast pocket of her uniform, removed a business card, and placed it on the table in front of me. “If you see them again, or if they approach you, or even if you see their truck on your street, call me.”

  I examined the card, embossed with the Appleseed Creek seal. It listed Chief Rose’s name, phone numbers, and address. “Shouldn’t I just call 911?” I tapped the card on the table before dropping it into my purse.

  “If you feel you are or someone else is in danger, by all means dial 911, but in any other case, call me.” She stood. “I’ll give you a ride back home.”