Falling to Pieces

by Vannetta Chapman

  “Later, I pieced together the stories—as the boys came back and asked for my forgiveness. They had hidden the car there. When they sneaked inside to get it, that was the noise Seth heard; and when they started it, they didn’t realize he was standing outside the big barn doors.”

  Her voice took on a hollow sound. “One boy opened the door, the other floored the gas pedal, and then the first boy jumped in. They had to do it this way because it was an older model car and prone to dying after they started it. Seth was unfortunate to be standing in their path when the door flew open. He never saw what ran over him—an old Dodge truck.”

  Callie waited, letting the words sink into the afternoon around them. She wanted to say she was sorry, but surely a hundred people had said that to Esther before. She wanted to fold the woman into her arms, but Esther remained ramrod straight. So she waited.

  Finally, Esther continued.

  “Shane used words like vehicular homicide, involuntary manslaughter, and negligent homicide.”

  “Did they ever catch the boys?”

  Esther stared down at the white rose she still clutched. “I knew the names of both boys almost immediately.”

  A feeling of dread crawled through Callie’s stomach. “But you didn’t tell Shane.”

  “No, of course not. It is not our way.”

  “Even for murder?”

  “Was it murder? Or was it two boys who had a terrible accident?”

  “But …” Callie felt her arguments fall away before she even uttered them.

  “They were sixteen. Their going to prison or having a record in the English courts wouldn’t bring back Seth. It was an accident.”

  “But you live in America, under our laws.”

  “This is true, but we reserve the right not to bring suit.”

  “Even in criminal matters?”

  “Was this criminal?” Esther turned to her, and Callie finally saw the battle that she must have fought for over a year, fought and finally won. “Those boys will have to live with what happened all of their lives. One is Seth’s cousin. The other the son of a very gut friend. Within a month, each had come to the bishop to confess and to me to ask forgiveness.”

  “Easy enough to ask forgiveness—”

  “And not so easy to live with having taken a life. I know. They still see me when they are in town, still send money to help with Leah. One lives here even now. The other has moved to live with his cousins in Ohio.” Esther shook her head, watched her child playing with Max, then stood and motioned Leah toward the gate. “I am telling you this for a reason, Callie.”

  “Shane.”

  “Yes. He would not let it go. He was determined to know the names of the boys, but it is not the Plain way to prosecute our own. We have ways within our church to deal with such matters.”

  “And you’re satisfied with that?”

  “Yes, I am. It was a difficult time, nonetheless; and it was made more so by Shane Black.”

  “He was only doing his job though.”

  “I understand, but you need to understand how he does his job. He will not let a thing go. Even when he’s told to by his superiors.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our bishop went to Officer Taylor, the head of the Shipshewana Police Force. He in turn asked Black to back off. Still he wouldn’t. He was determined to know the names of the boys and to arrest them.”

  Esther called again to Leah, who gave Max one final hug and ran to catch up with her mother. Callie walked them through the gate and to her buggy.

  “I am not saying he’s a bad man. I’m saying that he is tireless. It’s the same with the way he is chasing Stakehorn’s murderer, and if it means relentlessly pursuing you for answers that you may not have, then he will. He’ll do whatever it takes to catch his man.”

  “What made him finally stop with the boys?”

  Esther helped Leah into the buggy, then turned back to Callie. When she did, she was smiling. It was a genuine smile, and Callie realized for the first time what a beautiful woman she was.

  “Amish do not normally involve themselves in politics, at the local or state level, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t have freinden or aren’t owed favors. Our bishop called in such a favor by a man at the state level; that man spoke with Black and insisted that he call off the investigation. If it hadn’t been for this connection though, for this favor that was owed to our bishop, I believe he would have learned the names of the boys and ruined their lives forever.”

  Chapter 24

  DEBORAH DID NOT START checking on her list of names the next morning.

  Though she’d done laundry on Monday, with twin boys, laundry had ways of creeping into other days of the week. Wednesday she threw an extra load into the gas washer, and strung it up on the line when the skies finally cleared and allowed the sun to peek out.

  While the laundry dried in the morning breeze, she did some baking, then realized she hadn’t worked in her vegetable garden all week.

  “Mamm, have you decided if you want to have another boppli?” Martha sat at the end of the row Deborah was hoeing, caring for baby Joshua, while Mary went behind her picking up the weeds and putting them in the basket they’d then empty into the compost pile.

  “It’s not totally up to what I decide, Martha. You know where bopplin come from.”

  “Bopplin come under cabbages,” Mary declared, stooping to check under the lettuce plant her mother had just weeded around.

  Martha and Deborah shared a smile, but didn’t bother correcting Mary.

  “Of course I know,” Martha said in a lower voice when Mary had stepped away to chase a rabbit. “I was asking because Anna’s mother is expecting another already, and her baby is less than a year old. So I don’t really understand how this works.”

  Deborah paused to wipe the sweat away from her forehead and gazed out over the fields. She could barely make out Jonas at the north end of the hay patch. He’d stopped under a grove of trees and pulled the jug of tea off the back of the tractor. Joseph and Jacob were climbing the tree rather than resting under it.

  “It’s a bit confusing, I’ll admit.” She moved to the next row of vegetables and continued weeding. “Probably the midwife or your grossmammi could explain it better, but I can tell you it’s different for every woman. We waited four years between you and Mary, but then only one year between Mary and the boys.”

  “So it’s a little like when we come out to harvest the vegetables.” Martha stood with Joshua, held on to his fingers as he took tentative steps down the row. “Sometimes we pull squash, and more comes out right away. Other times we have to wait.”

  Deborah’s laughter bubbled out of her, causing Joshua to plop on the ground and begin laughing as well. “Yes, I suppose it is a little like the vegetables. We never know when God is going to give us more very soon or ask us to wait a bit.”

  As she worked on the garden, Deborah thought of Tobias’s list of names. She had a plan in her mind, much as she designed her quilts before she began sewing.

  She wanted to visit with Mrs. Caldwell first, but she thought it would be best to do it outside the Gazette office. As long as she’d known her, the receptionist always took her lunch at the deli on Main, and she always took it at half past noon.

  “Add more tomatoes to that basket, Martha.”

  “It’s near full now. I’m afraid it will spill over.”

  “Then add the cherry ones, and put my checkered cloth over the top.”

  “We’re taking them to town?”

  “Ya, and it would help me if you’d clean up Joshua and put his suspenders on him.”

  Martha didn’t question her, only smiled.

  It wasn’t every day that she dressed the baby in the traditional Amish clothes, but she would for church and for Mrs. Caldwell. The woman had a soft spot for her children. Deborah planned to use every tool at her disposal.

  She would have taken the twins, as they tended to look charming and most Englishers couldn�
�t help but smile when they saw the two boys together. Then again, most Englishers didn’t have to clean up after the two of them. However when they arrived in from the field, ready for lunch, they were darker than the work horses Jonas used to pull the plough.

  “How does that happen?” Deborah asked. “It looks as if you had them roll in the dirt.”

  The boys shrugged and offered no reason, but Jonas seemed to think he should explain. “I believe the first of it began when Joseph was pulling Patch by the bridle and slipped into the mud—”

  “I didn’t slip exactly, Dat. Patch pushed me with his nose.”

  “Ya, Patch is stubborn when he doesn’t want to move,” Jacob agreed, reaching out to play with baby Joshua.

  “Don’t touch your brother. He’s clean.” Deborah pushed his hand out of the way without coming in contact with too much of the mud, then she took the reins to Cinnamon in her hand and looked at her girls. They were clean as a new dawn in fresh kapps and aprons. “We’ll be back well before dinner.”

  “Sounds gut. We’re working in the barn this afternoon.”

  “Keep the boys out of the pigs, please.”

  Joseph and Jacob cast a glance at each other, but both muttered, “Yes, Mamm.”

  She pulled up in front of the deli a few minutes before one, which seemed like perfect timing. Mrs. Caldwell should be done with her lunch, but not yet ready to leave.

  “Carry the basket for me, Mary?”

  “Sure.” Mary scrambled out of the buggy, and carefully placed the basket over her arm.

  Martha took baby Joshua, and Deborah led them all into the store. Since it was a Wednesday and a market day, the sidewalks were a bit more crowded than usual. Deborah noticed a few Englishers stopping to stare at both her and her children.

  Tourists, more than likely. She knew they meant no harm by their long looks and pointing. Most knew enough not to take pictures, or if they did they stayed at a distance to snap with their little instant cameras.

  Smiling politely, she hustled the children inside and looked for Mrs. Caldwell.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she spied her sitting at a table near the back, reading a magazine.

  “Hello, Mrs. Caldwell. Do you mind if we join you?”

  Caldwell peered over the top of her magazine, a frown automatically in place. Then she spied Martha, baby Joshua, and Mary carrying the basket of vegetables. Deborah realized how picture-perfect her children looked, and almost felt guilty for using them to soften the woman’s heart. But she told herself it was for the greater good, and pushed aside her remorse.

  “Deborah, of course you can sit down. Your children look so nice today. I always did say that you have such nice-mannered, well-kept children. That tells a lot about a person.”

  The children smiled, but didn’t speak.

  “Danki,” Deborah said.

  “Sit, sit. There are plenty of chairs.”

  “I hope we’re not interrupting.”

  “Of course you’re not. I had already finished eating. What brings you to town?”

  “We were working in the garden this morning, and I found that we had more vegetables than I could use without canning them.” Deborah paused—again what she said was half-true. She could have given them to any of a number of people, but it seemed most expedient to offer them to Caldwell.

  “And you thought of me?”

  “I did,” Deborah said with relief; at least that part was completely true.

  Mary hopped off her chair and walked around the table, as if on cue. “Here you go. We looked under the lettuce and there were no bopplin.”

  Caldwell raised an eyebrow and glanced at Deborah, then accepted the basket. “Well, thank you for checking for me, and thank you for the vegetables.”

  “Gern gschehne.” Mary slipped back around to her seat.

  “Such polite children. Not always the case you know. Not at all. In fact it seems more and more people are moving into Shipshewana who are outright rude.” Caldwell looked as if she was about to say more, then pressed her lips together. Finally she added. “It was kind of you to think of me.”

  Martha and Mary turned and watched as a mother and father with two English children walked through the deli with ice-cream cones. Deborah was proud that her children didn’t ask for any money or any treats, but she noticed how their gaze followed the family all the way out the door.

  “Martha, would you like to take your sister and buy some ice cream for you both?”

  Martha’s face brightened immediately. “Yes.”

  “I’ll take the baby.” She handed her daughter her change purse, thought to tell her to buy only a single dip each, but then bit back the words. Martha was frugal. She would spend the money wisely.

  Taking Mary by the hand, Martha led her over to the ice-cream counter.

  “It must have been a hard week for you,” Deborah said. “I wanted to do something to make it easier.”

  “Thank you.” Caldwell sighed, took a sip of her iced tea. “I have always wanted to start my own garden like yours, but it just isn’t possible with the hours I put in at the paper.”

  Again Caldwell seemed to want to say more, but didn’t.

  “Ya. I know the new editor will be glad to have you, to help show him the way of doing things.”

  “What man actually listens to a woman, tell me that—Amish or English I imagine it’s much the same. It was the same with my late husband.” Caldwell reached for the baby, bounced him on her lap. “New editor or old editor, I don’t think it will be any different. No, I don’t expect Mr. McCallister will listen to me any better than Mr. Stakehorn did. If he had—”

  Again she stopped, looked around as though she were checking to see if anyone else could hear their conversation.

  “If he had listened to me, perhaps we wouldn’t need a new editor.”

  Deborah’s eyes widened. “You tried to warn him? You knew—”

  “I suspected.” Caldwell leaned forward. Deborah tried not to focus on the bright red of her lipstick. “He had been angering people for many years over his column. I warned him time and again that he was going to push too far.”

  She sat back, looking relieved that she had finally had her say. When Joshua picked up a fork and began playing with it, she gave him a spoon instead.

  “You told the police this, ya?”

  “Black? Of course I told him, but do you think he listened? No. He’s like every other man—thick headed. He wanted to know who had been in the office that afternoon, who had called that day, as if the person who murdered Dennis would have made an appointment first.”

  “Gail, I hope you’re not in danger.”

  Caldwell’s eyes jerked up at the sound of her given name. She studied Deborah for a moment, then shook her head. “No, of course not. I’m a receptionist. Whatever grudge the murderer held was obviously against Dennis, against the paper, not against the way the phone was answered.”

  Deborah stood as the older woman pushed her chair back from the table, accepted her baby so that Caldwell could pick up the basket of vegetables, and walked with her to the front of the store where her girls waited. “So you think that’s what it was then, a grudge?”

  Caldwell stepped closer as they walked outside into the afternoon sunshine. It was warmer there after the artificial coolness of the air conditioning. But though the warmth of the sun felt comforting on Deborah’s skin, it did nothing to stop the chill sliding down her spine at Caldwell’s next words.

  “I can think of a dozen people who held a grudge against Dennis. Can’t say I blame them, either. The man even angered me.”

  Deborah thought Caldwell would stop there, but she added, “It’s wrong to make promises, don’t you agree? Promises that you have no intention of keeping.”

  “Ya. It is.”

  Caldwell glanced over at Martha and Mary and a look passed over her face that differed from anger or bitterness. It was closer to regret.

  Had Gail Caldwell been in love with De
nnis Stakehorn?

  Then the look passed, and Caldwell planted her smile firmly back in place. “Not that I would have killed him. I would have been smart enough to hire someone else to do it.”

  The children stayed in the buggy while Deborah checked out one more person on her list that afternoon—Mr. Beiler, the owner of the feed store where Tobias worked. He was Amish and in his late forties. Amish folk took a vow of non-violence when they joined the church. But he was on her list, on the list she’d made when speaking to Tobias, so she spoke with him anyway.

  “Ya, I argued with him quite often,” Mr. Beiler admitted, as he shuffled through a stack of papers that covered nearly every square surface of his desk. “And don’t you be judging me for it, Deborah. The man was not a gut neighbor—not by English or Amish standards.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t be judging you, Mr. Beiler. I’m simply trying to figure out what happened here. The police don’t seem to be making much headway, and my friend, Miss Harper, is very distressed by the situation. Do you have any idea what might have happened to Mr. Stakehorn?”

  “I don’t.” Mr. Beiler said, standing and shooing her out of his office. “But I’ll tell you this—he won’t be missed.”

  The meeting was unsettling to say the least. She’d seen crotchety old men among her district before, but she’d rarely seen one with so little compassion.

  Ten minutes later, Deborah was showing her list of four names to Callie, explaining what she’d learned so far and Mr. Beiler’s odd reaction to her questions.

  “Doesn’t make him guilty of murder though,” Callie said.

  “Ya. I was thinking the same thing.” Deborah remained in her buggy in the parking lot of Daisy’s Quilt Shop. Callie had stepped outside to help a customer carry a large order to their car. “So you called and spoke with Margie?”

  “No. They wouldn’t put me through, but the nurse who’s caring for her said her condition is the same.”

  “That’s a shame. Try not to worry. I’m sure she’ll improve soon.”

  Callie nodded, reached forward and tussled the baby’s hair, waved at the girls. “Say, I just remembered. I was going to take that sack of things for Max back, but I can’t find it. You know the one I had at The Kaffi Shop before Black picked me up—again. Any idea where it is?”