Falling to Pieces

by Vannetta Chapman

“So I heard this morning.” Margie said. “My daughter saw it on someone’s Facebook page. Of course, I don’t use those things. I only use the internet to check my email and catch the news occasionally, but apparently someone knows someone who knows the brother of this person who’s coming. He was due to arrive this morning.”

  Margie looked pleased with her bullet-proof information. Deborah waited until Margie had moved away before she leaned forward. “What are you thinking?”

  Callie popped a mini muffin into her mouth. “We go see the new editor. We might be able to get that retraction.”

  They sat smiling at each other as the noon-day rush began to pick up in The Kaffi Shop.

  “Oh!” Deborah said. “More good news: Bishop Elam has allowed us to leave the three quilts on eBay. I don’t know if he’ll approve additional ones though. He’s still thinking on it.”

  “First auction ends today.”

  Deborah relaxed for the first time in weeks. The quilt sale could continue, Callie was staying—at least for now—and the newspaper would soon be back in business. Maybe everything would return to normal. After they finished eating their meal, Callie dug around in her purse, apparently pulling out change for a tip. She didn’t see Shane Black pull up outside the little shop and get out of his Buick, but Deborah did, and she didn’t like the look on his face.

  It was an expression she’d seen before.

  The door to The Kaffi Shop opened. Black glanced around the booths, zeroed in on theirs, and began walking toward them.

  “Callie—”

  Callie zipped the change holder on her wallet shut. “What is it?”

  “Mrs. Yoder. Miss Harper.”

  Callie’s face froze the moment she heard Black’s voice, before she even looked up. Placing her wallet carefully in her purse, she pulled the strap over her shoulder, then turned toward him. “Officer Black.”

  “I’m going to need you to come with me, Miss Harper.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. We’re not doing this again.”

  “I’m afraid we are, sweetheart. And it would be better if you don’t make a scene.”

  “I’ll make a scene all right, because I’m not going with you. How did you even find me here? Are you following us now?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I asked around and folks saw you walking down Main.”

  “I’m not going with you,” Callie repeated.

  Deborah watched the exchange in horror, dread rising in her like a fever. She knew firsthand that arguing with Shane Black was pointless. One could win against him slowly, with other means, like water dripping against a rock … but when he showed up like this, bent on something, there was no changing his mind.

  “Maybe you should go with him, Callie. I’ll get Adalyn.”

  “No. I won’t do it.” Callie shook her head and scooted to the far side of the bench, reminding Deborah of her oldest child Martha when she was younger and didn’t want to take her bath. “You can’t make me.”

  Shane didn’t look away, didn’t appear embarrassed or perturbed, but he did lean forward slightly and lower his voice. “I can make you, Miss Harper, and I will if you insist. Do you want me to handcuff you and drag you out of here?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed, her face turning a bright red.

  “I’d actually enjoy it.”

  He had to jump back, she came out of the booth so quickly. “Well, don’t put yourself out, Officer Black. I wouldn’t want you to have to exert yourself.” Callie paused only long enough to toss her store keys to Deborah. Instead of going quietly, she stormed out of the shop, waiting by the back door of his Buick, looking as if she might kick the tires or begin slamming her purse against the windows.

  Deborah noticed that several people walking by spoke to her, but Callie appeared not to hear. While Black was unlocking the door and waiting for her to get inside, Mr. Simms, the owner of The Deli, walked outside. Deborah heard him ask if everything was all right.

  Shane told him to go back into his store. Then the officer drove away, toward the station.

  Deborah grabbed her own bag and headed for the door.

  “Why did he do that?” Margie demanded. “What was Shane Black thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I need to run to Adalyn Landt’s office. She can help Callie. She’ll want to be at the station as soon as she can.”

  “All right.” The woman began stacking dishes from their table haphazardly while still watching out the window.

  Deborah was pushing her way out the door, when Margie called out to her. “Oh, wait. Callie forgot her shopping bag.” She dropped the dishes back onto the table with a clatter, picked up the large shopping bag, and rushed toward the front door of the shop.

  “Can you keep it for her? One of us will return to pick it up later.”

  “Yes, sure. I’ll put it behind the counter. You come back when you can. And call me if you need anything—use the station phone.”

  Deborah was on the street, eyeing the crowd that was still staring at Shane’s Buick, when she realized what Margie had just said. She turned and hurried back into the shop. “On second thought, could you call Adalyn for me? Her number’s in the book.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Danki.” Deborah reached up, making sure her kapp was firmly in place. She had the sense that things were moving quickly now, that she might miss something if she weren’t careful. “I need to go back to The Quilt Shop and check on Max, then get my buggy. If you could call Adalyn and tell her what happened, tell her Shane took Callie to the station. She’ll know what to do.”

  “Of course I will. You go on, dear.”

  Deborah walked back outside and straight into Mr. Simms, the owner of the deli. She had to pause and assure him that Callie would be fine.

  “Why is Officer Black bothering her? He should be looking for the man who killed Stakehorn, and whoever broke into the newspaper on Friday night.”

  “They’re saying it was just children who broke in, Mr. Simms.”

  Mr. Simms swept the walk a little harder than was necessary. “Children would not know how to break into a business without busting the lock, now would they?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “You go and help Miss Callie. The police should not be harassing the shop owners of Shipshewana.”

  “Yes, Mr. Simms.”

  Deborah hurried down the street, thinking that it seemed Callie had made quite a few friends in the short time she’d been in town.

  The gawkers dispersed as she walked through the heat, hurried up the walk, and unlocked the door to Daisy’s Quilt Shop. She felt as if eyes were on her, but surely that was her imagination. Curiosity was natural; after all, it wasn’t every day that a person was picked up by Shane Black on the streets of Shipshewana.

  At least the new editor would have plenty to write about.

  He stood across the street milling among the group of people watching the short brunette get into the unmarked car with the cop.

  “What a shame,” one of the dames with a bonnet on her head muttered.

  “You know Callie Harper had nothing to do with killing Stakehorn.” This from a man with a long beard and a black hat like he had seen in an old movie once. These people all looked liked they stepped out of a Hollywood set. Why his boss had picked Shipshewana, Indiana, for the site was beyond him, but then it wasn’t his place to question the boss or his plan.

  His place was to clean up the mess, and that was exactly what he meant to do.

  “I was in Daisy’s Quilt Shop last Saturday. She’s fixed the place up as cute as ever.” This from a young woman who was at least dressed halfway normal, though she wore a doily on her head.

  “Well, it might be cute, but it’s different.” The last word was pronounced by an old biddy as if it tasted poisonous.

  The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  He pretended to study his map of downtown merchants as the little crowd watched the vintage Buick drive slowly down M
ain Street.

  “Different isn’t always bad, Thelma.”

  “Say what you want, but in my opinion she had no right putting those quilts on the in-ter-net.” Thelma said in-ter-net as if it were three different words. Though she wasn’t dressed in old-fashioned clothes, obviously she’d never used Twitter or tweeted.

  The BlackBerry in his pocket vibrated, but he ignored the text. It was more important that he listened to the local gossip.

  “Wasn’t a crime to sell the quilts that way,” the man in the hat piped in. “Whether you agree with it or not.”

  “No, I suppose it wasn’t.” Thelma sniffed and pulled her pocketbook closer to her side, as if she suspected someone of stealing it. No one had even glanced at him, but then he was standing under the shade of the tree, studying his map, supposedly ignoring them. “Folks who have strange ways, there’s no telling what they’re capable of.”

  One or two seemed to agree with her. A few shook their heads as if they were tolerating her odd ideas, but they were exactly that—odd.

  He wondered what they’d say if they knew who was standing in their midst, exactly what he was capable of and the things he had done.

  They wouldn’t know though.

  He’d clean things up, reclaim the boss’s package, and head out of town. They’d never be one bit wiser.

  If the brunette took the fall, so be it.

  The crowd began to disperse, so he walked on down the sidewalk, pretending to be interested in the wares offered in the various windows.

  He’d heard and seen enough.

  Time to call the boss.

  Harper had taken a bag identical to the one he was supposed to pick up—large, plastic, with the words SHOP SHIPSHEWANA—into The Kaffi Shop.

  A bag just like the one Stakehorn had found. If the man had handed it over, he wouldn’t have died, but apparently he’d decided to pass it off to someone else.

  This Harper dame?

  And now she’d given it to the owner of The Kaffi Shop. Maybe these people weren’t as backward as they looked. They recognized quality goods when they saw them. Knew a once in a lifetime opportunity when it showed up in their little town.

  No doubt there were hundreds of bags exactly like it around Shipshewana, but he didn’t believe in coincidences. He’d seen Harper with Stakehorn.

  Stakehorn had taken what belonged to the boss.

  It was time for him to take it back.

  He hadn’t found it in the Gazette on Friday night.

  Tonight he’d try again.

  Chapter 20

  CALLIE SEETHED ALL THE WAY TO THE POLICE STATION.

  Each time Black looked into the rearview mirror she glowered at him. This was nothing like the first time. Oh, she was shaking the same—but it was from anger instead of fear.

  How dare he take her in again?

  In front of everyone again! At this point she’d soon have her own locker at the police station.

  When Black opened the door and motioned for her to go first, she couldn’t stop the smart remark. “I think I remember the way.”

  The dark eyebrows arched up, but still he said nothing. It infuriated her, made her want to stomp her feet on the steps of Shipshewana Police Department, but she resisted. She would not give him the satisfaction of a tantrum. No doubt he expected one.

  She passed Andrew Gavin heading out as she walked in. Whatever was going on, he knew about it. He met her eyes, but said nothing. His gaze lingered, locked with hers, and Callie realized there was something there she didn’t want to see. Disappointment?

  But why? She hadn’t done anything.

  Black picked up a case folder from the girl working the desk as he ushered her into the same interrogation room—same freshly painted white walls, same drab metal table, same three chairs.

  The only thing that gave her any comfort was knowing Adalyn would soon occupy one.

  As if Black read her thoughts, he dropped the file folder on the table and perched on the edge of a chair. “Before your lawyer gets here, how about you tell me where you got the poison?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Harper. You know how this works. Smart city gal like you, bet you watch all the crime shows—CSI, Law and Order, and old reruns of Murder, She Wrote” He paused to offer a smile, but it wasn’t genuine. It was sad, and seemed almost filled with regret. “Things work differently in small towns though. We’re more like Max hunting a bird. We don’t let go until we catch our man—or woman.”

  “Is this supposed to intimidate me, Officer Black?” Callie leaned well across the halfway point of the table though she had to scootch to the end of her chair to do it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you want to play it that way?” The black in his eyes turned to steel, and it occurred to Callie that here was an adversary she didn’t want to cross if she didn’t have to.

  So why did she have to?

  He opened the file.

  A picture of Stakehorn, laid out on a morgue slab, was stapled to the left. On the right was one of those two prong fasteners she hadn’t seen since she used to go into her father’s engineering office and help his receptionist with the filing during the summer. The top sheet was a toxicology report.

  “How long did you think it would take us to learn that you were a pharmaceutical rep?”

  “What?”

  “That you have a degree in bio-medical science?”

  “But—”

  “In fact, you graduated cum laude.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “Clearly.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Maybe because Stakehorn was killed with poison.”

  Callie felt the salad in her stomach tumble and turn sour.

  “Maybe because the poison used was something any pharmaceutical rep would have access to.” Black stood, walked around the table, and moved behind her chair, leaning in until his voice was just inches from her ear—a voice that was no longer loud, but had instead become a whisper. “Maybe because now you have more than motive—you have access to the substance used to commit murder.”

  The scene flashed back in her memory as her fingers gripped the edge of the metal table. Stakehorn at his desk, his face pale, lifeless. His hand reaching out over the stack of papers. Brown liquid on the floor …

  Callie’s hand came up, covered her mouth, even as her pulse thudded through her veins. “It was in his coffee.”

  “Okay. We’re getting somewhere. When did you put it in his coffee?” Black walked back around the table, sat down opposite her, and waited.

  “No. I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t even get there until he was already dead.”

  “How would I know that?” Black sat back, crossed his arms, and waited.

  “Most poisons would have broken down in a hot liquid. It would have had to been administered fairly quickly …”

  “Say by the person who made his cup of coffee?”

  Callie had recovered her equilibrium. Now her mind was back at the university, back in the classroom and the textbooks. She barely heard Black or the accusatory note in his voice.

  “Depending on what the substance was, the person could have stirred it in his coffee and handed it to him, but only a few pharmaceuticals wouldn’t have a bitter taste.” Callie sat back, mirroring Black’s posture. “And as I said, the chemicals would have broken down in the hot, acidic liquid quickly. Unless he drank at least half the cup, he would have become sick, likely very sick, but he wouldn’t have died from it.”

  “From what?”

  “Any number of things. Atropine is deadly. Anyone could have access to it. The common plant is called nightshade.”

  Callie noticed he didn’t take notes.

  “Many ordinary seeds are toxic—cherries, potatoes, peaches, and apple seeds. This information is available on the net, Shane.” She liked using his first name, liked the way it made her feel he didn’t have the superior hand here.


  “Or in a bio-med class.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Callie forced her voice to remain steady. “Surely even you know that the castor bean is the deadliest plant poison on earth.”

  His relaxed pose was infuriating her.

  “One tiny castor bean is enough to kill an adult within a few minutes. Instead of questioning me, maybe you should be checking people’s gardens.” When he still didn’t answer, she snatched at the folder. “What does your report say? What killed him?”

  “Inconclusive, sweetheart.” Black slapped the folder shut. “Thanks for the toxicology lesson though. Now if you’ll sign a confession stating exactly how you did it, we can move on to the next phase of this investigation.”

  Callie’s temper spiked at the same time her hand came down on top of his, on top of the folder, surprising them both. “I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t do it.”

  “Because you say you didn’t?”

  “Check your autopsy report again.” Callie pulled the folder out from under his hand and threw it across the table at him. “Does it or doesn’t it show toxic levels of poison?”

  An impenetrable mask covered Black’s features. “I’m the one asking questions here, Miss Harper.”

  “Maybe Stakehorn ingested some, but I seriously doubt he swallowed enough to kill him. He might have taken enough to induce a coronary.” Callie shook her head. “I don’t know. Check with his doctor. See who knew enough about him and who had access to the drugs.”

  “Pharmaceutical reps have access to samples. Samples of the wrong drug would have been enough. Samples of the wrong drug—possibly something meant to make it look like a natural herb …” Black’s voice was a low growl, though his expression remained impassive.

  “Shane, think about it. I barely knew this man. I had no reason to want him dead.”

  “You had every reason. According to witnesses, you did. Shall we go back over their testimony again?”

  Callie waved away the sheets he was flipping through.

  “How long had he been dead when I arrived?” she asked.

  “Why did you move to Shipshewana?”

  “What?” Why was he changing the topic when they were clearly on to something?