“She broke her hip?!” Rachel exclaimed. “Is she all right?”
“She’ll be fine,” Austina said. “As soon as she gets out of traction.” Her dark eyes zeroed in on me. “Angie, I want you to take over for her.”
I pointed at myself. “Me? Why me?”
“Because you are the best person for the job, according to head township trustee Caroline Cramer,” she said matter-of-factly. “When I spoke to her about needing someone to take on the job, she suggested you right away.”
I bet she did.
“Isn’t there someone else in the Friends who can take this on?” I asked. “I’ve never run an event like this before. Your Friends are the ones with the experience.”
She shook her head. “Most of them are pushing eighty, and the ones that aren’t, I wouldn’t trust with a kid’s lemonade stand, let alone a library book sale.”
“B-but—” I stammered.
She jabbed her fists into her sides and looked as fierce as she did when she was staring down the irate bishop. “Don’t tell me you won’t do it. You’d be letting the entire county down.”
I rolled my eyes. “That seems like a gross exaggeration.”
She picked a piece of lint off of her cardigan. “It could be great publicity for your quilt shop.”
She had me. I was always trying to grow my business. “When and where will it be?” I asked in a whimper.
Austina’s lips curled into a small smile. She knew she was the victor. She’d had the same triumphant expression on her face when she’d shooed the bishop away. I wondered how long that smile would remain.
Chapter Two
Austina folded her arms. “It’s this weekend. The bookmobile will be parked outside the main library in Millersburg.”
Rachel made a small sound.
Both Austina and I looked at her.
She gave us a small smile, but I noticed the tightening around my soft-spoken friend’s mouth.
“Rachel, what’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
I put my hands on my hips and waited.
She sighed. “This weekend is the grand opening of the factory, and I wanted you to be—”
I smacked myself in the forehead. That’s right. The Miller’s Amish Pie Factory grand opening was that Friday and Saturday. I couldn’t miss it. Not only was Rachel my best friend, but I had been tricked into being a township trustee to save the factory. It didn’t seem fair that I would miss the main event or the pie. I deserved a piece of pie or two after what I had been through to see the factory up and running. “Austina, if the book sale is the same weekend as the Millers’ pie factory grand opening, I can’t do it. I need to be there to support my friends.”
Rachel’s brow cleared, and I knew that I’d made the right decision. Caroline Cramer would have to suggest someone else to take over for the lame Mrs. Parsons.
Austina wasn’t giving up that easily. “What if the book sale came to you?”
Rachel cocked her head, unknowingly tilting it at the same angle as Oliver at our feet. “What do you mean?”
“What if we have the book sale at the pie factory? The book sale can be anywhere. The bookmobile is mobile after all.” She tapped a finger to her cheek. “I like it. Rolling Brook Township is too small for a library branch of its own. What better place to have the bookmobile book sale than in one of the communities that we serve?”
I knew that Rachel’s private husband, Aaron, would hate this idea. “I don’t—” I started to interrupt her.
She kept talking as if she never heard me say a word. “There’s plenty of parking there. The parking lot that your husband had built is huge. We could set up a tent as well. I’m really liking this idea.”
“Won’t the library have a problem with a change of venue?” I asked.
“The bookmobile is mine to do with what I please. My director has no interest in it whatsoever. If I told her I wanted to park the bookmobile on Mars, she’d shrug.”
I looked to Rachel. “How would Aaron feel about this?”
Rachel pursed her lips together. “He won’t like it at first, but I will talk to him. I think it might be a great way to bring some extra attention to the pie factory. That’s what Aaron ultimately wants. I’m sure he will see that after we talk.”
I wasn’t as sure, but Rachel knew her husband. Maybe she was right.
I twisted my mouth. “If you can move the book sale to the pie factory, we have a deal.”
She adjusted her glasses on her nose. “Consider it done. In fact, I will park the bookmobile there tonight, so it’s all ready to begin setup tomorrow. Why don’t you meet me there at eight thirty tomorrow morning, Angie? Then we can talk details.”
I winced. I was not a morning person, but since Austina had so readily agreed to change location, I didn’t think I could fuss over the meeting time. “All right—”
My response was interrupted by the sound of screeching tires as a hearse-sized mustard yellow sedan came to an abrupt stop on Hock Trail in front of the bookmobile. Our mouths fell open as dust settled around the car and a large and disheveled woman got out. She didn’t even pause to close her door before stomping straight at us.
Oliver whimpered and dashed back under the teeter-totter.
The woman pointed a crooked finger at Austina. “You! You ruined me! You had no right.”
Rachel and I gaped at each other.
Austina held up her hands. “You aren’t allowed near library property.”
“Because of you!” the woman yelled.
I glanced over my shoulder at the school. If those kids thought the bishop had been frightening, they must be hiding under their desks listening to this.
“I’m going to ask you to leave,” Austina said in her best don’t-mess-with-me-I’m-a-librarian voice.
The woman licked her lips. “You are so smug, but I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face. Just you wait.” She dropped her arm and stomped back to her car.
After she sped away, Rachel and I turned back to Austina for an explanation, but none came.
Finally, I was forced to ask, “What was that all about?”
Austina brushed off her sleeves as if casting the Amish bishop and the mystery woman aside. “Not my problem anymore. She used to be my problem, but she’s not anymore.” She smiled. “Angie, I will see you at eight thirty tomorrow.” With that, she walked into the bookmobile and closed the door.
As we walked back to Rachel’s buggy, she said, “Englischers,” and shook her head.
I laughed, just as she expected I would, and I tried to put the thoughts of Bartholomew Beiler and the unknown crazy woman out of my mind. Austina claimed they weren’t her problems, and they certainly weren’t mine. I had bigger ones at the moment.
On the ride back to Rolling Brook, I chewed on my lip. What was I doing organizing a library book sale? How do I get myself into these things? Oh, I know. I can never say no. At least not convincingly. I would have thought that, by age thirty-five, I would have grown a backbone. Not so much.
The hooves of the Millers’ horse clomped onto Sugartree Street, the main road and center of business in tiny Rolling Brook. Oliver wriggled out from under the seat as if he knew we were almost back to the shop. I knew by his frantic movements that he was anxious to see my one-year-old cat, Dodger. Even though Dodger was full grown and as solid as a mountain lion, Oliver still believed him to be his baby brother who needed constant supervision and guidance. He was probably right, since Dodger still thought he was a kitten despite weighing a hardy twelve pounds.
I reached down to pat his head. “I’m sure Mattie has taken great care of Dodger, Oliver.”
Oliver tilted his chin at me as if to say, Yeah, right.
I couldn’t blame him. At best, my assistant, Mattie, and Dodger ignore each other. At worst, it’s a chase sce
ne out of a cop movie, Mattie being the irate cop and Dodger the jubilant thief.
At the end of the road, the two-story redbrick pie factory was the largest building on the street. Over the last few days, the scent of the fresh pie permanently perfumed the air as the Millers prepared for the grand opening, making me instantly hungry. I was happy for Rachel and Aaron. Their dream pie factory would finally be a reality, but it wasn’t doing anything good for my waistline.
“Whoa,” Rachel murmured and pulled back on the reins to stop her horse as a minivan backed out of one of the diagonal spots in front of my beloved Amish quilt shop, Running Stitch. As the minivan pulled away, I groaned, because it revealed my mother’s small white sports car. My mother was the only person in Holmes County who would have such a low-riding car. It worked fine for her in Dallas but was totally impractical in rural Ohio with its harsh winters. Mom and Dad planned to stay in Holmes County through Thanksgiving, and then snowbird it to Dallas for the winter.
Rachel didn’t even bother to hide her smile as she directed her horse into the spot that the minivan had just left. “Did you know your mother was stopping by the shop?”
“No,” I grumbled.
It was late in the day, approaching four, when most of the businesses on Sugartree Street closed. Rachel pulled on the reins, stopping her mare and buggy at the hitching post in front of my shop. I made no move to exit the buggy. Both Rachel and Oliver stared at me.
“Is something wrong, Angie?” my sweet friend asked.
“I’m afraid it’s about throw pillows again. The last time I was with my mother we talked about throw pillows for a solid hour. The size, color, fabric. To get fiber filled or down. I couldn’t take it if I had to go through that again. I nearly suffocated in literal pillow talk.”
Rachel chuckled. “Angie, you are so silly.”
If she only knew. She hadn’t been there. With a dramatic sigh, I hopped out of the buggy. My prized cowboy boots made a satisfying clicking sound when their soles hit the pavement. Then I helped Oliver down. The Frenchie headed straight for Running Stitch. He wanted to check on Dodger, and wanted to check on Dodger right now.
Rachel secured her horse to the post, and I joined Oliver at the front door. Before I could open it, it swung inward. “Angie,” Anna Graber, a sixtysomething Amish woman whom I had known my entire life and who was a member of my quilting circle, greeted me at the door. “What are you doing standing there? Come on in.” She yanked me into the shop and would’ve slammed the door in Oliver’s face if Rachel hadn’t been right behind me to stop it.
“Anna, what on earth—” I stopped midsentence when I saw the state of the shop. On the cutting table there were three bolts of fabric in various states of unwrap. Dozens more bolts were on the floor in haphazard piles. Of the two hundred bolts of fabric that we have in the shop, nearly two thirds were pulled from their shelves.
My gray-and-white cat Dodger sat on one of the piles with a mischievous glint in his eye. Dodger relished in disorder of any kind. Oliver ran over to check on his feline charge. The adopted brothers touched noses. I would have awwed at the cuteness, if the state of my shop hadn’t stolen my ability to speak.
Rachel gasped. “What happened in here?”
My mother held up a scrap of damask fabric to Mattie. “No, this won’t do. Can I see a sample of the mauve?”
“Mom?” I squeaked. “What are you doing here?”
My mother turned to me. “Angie, there you are. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m shopping.”
“You’re going to buy all of this?” I waved my hand at the fabric on the cutting table and on the floor.
My mother sniffed. “Of course not.”
“Then why did you have Mattie pull nearly every bolt from the shelves? Look at this mess.”
“How else was I going to pick the fabric for the quilt in the guest bedroom?” Mom asked. “I had to know what the fabric felt like and how the colors looked up against each other.”
I sighed. “You could have walked up to them to feel them.”
“Angie.” My mother frowned. “In a shop such as yours, you need to make the customers a priority and go that extra mile in service. If this is how a customer like myself prefers to shop, you should allow it. If you don’t provide stellar service, how else do you compete with the other Amish quilt shops in the county, including Martha Yoder’s place next door?”
I bit down on the inside of my lip hard to avoid saying anything I might regret. Instead, I said, “Are you sure every fabric needed to be brought to you?”
“It’s okay,” Mattie said, coming back with the mauve damask. “I don’t mind, and I will clean it up, Angie. Don’t worry. Have you made your selections, Mrs. Braddock?”
My mother frowned. “I think the yellow muslin. Yes, that will be perfect for the roman shades I’m having made for that room.”
“That’s the fabric she wanted in the first place,” Anna muttered behind me.
Mom looked at me. “Don’t you think the muslin is nice? Also, I always liked yellow as a color for babies and children. It’s supposed to stimulate their thinking.”
“Children?” Anna asked. “What children?”
I wondered the same thing too, but was too afraid to ask.
“My grandchildren, of course.”
All three Amish women looked at me.
My face turned bright red. “There won’t be grandchildren anytime soon from me. I’m not pregnant.”
My mother sighed. “A mother can dream, can’t she? I have waited a very long time for a grandchild. All my friends back in Dallas have oodles of them.”
Who knew anything could be worse than the epic throw pillow conversation? I looked at the ceiling and allowed my eye to follow the faint crack in the plaster. I would have to ask Jonah to look at that and see if it needed to be patched. When I regained my composure, I said, “Mom, by the time I have kids, you will probably want a completely different color scheme for the baby’s room. I know you. And why would my fictitious kid have a room in your house anyway?”
“You never know what will happen. I want to be prepared. I’ll use the space as my reading room until the baby is born,” Mom said as she examined a piece of fabric.
My shoulders sagged. There was no point in arguing. Mom was just being Mom. She took interior design as seriously as I took keeping my shop afloat, which was why I found myself in another mess like organizing a book sale. I inwardly groaned.
My mother folded the samples Mattie had cut for her and tucked them in her fine-grain leather purse. “Angie, I’d expected you would’ve been here to help me with the selection. Since it wasn’t throw pillows, I thought I might depend on your advice.”
Throw pillows would be the death of me.
“Rachel and I went to deliver a quilt the circle finished last night,” I explained.
Mom hung her purse’s strap on her shoulder. “Yes, Mattie told me. She said that you went out to the bookmobile.”
Anna settled into my aunt Eleanor’s rocking chair. “Anything interesting happen?”
Rachel removed her large black bonnet, which she had worn during the buggy ride. “Angie is heading up the Rolling Brook library book sale, and it’s going to be in the pie factory parking lot to go along with the grand opening this weekend. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I squinted at her.
Rachel gave me a sheepish grin in return.
My mother spun around from the table where she was examining more fabric. “You are organizing a book sale?” she asked, as if Rachel had just revealed that I planned to give up the quilt shop and become an astronaut.
I frowned. “Sure. The person who was going to do it broke her hip, so I was the logical choice—at least as far as Caroline Cramer, the head township trustee, was concerned.”
“I can help,” Mom said, standing up straight and holding
the fabric samples to her chest.
I froze, holding a bolt of fabric that I was about to return to its high shelf over my head. “Help?”
“Yes, I would love to help. I can already think of ways that we can get the community involved.”
I slid the bolt into place. “Umm, I don’t know. I know you’re busy remodeling the house.”
“That’s all well in hand, and I want to be useful.”
“What about the kids’ room?” I asked after adamantly denying that I was having children in the near future. I was that desperate to talk her out of working on the book sale with me.
She frowned and didn’t look at me.
I chewed on my lip. I knew my mother could do the work. In fact, the book sale would go much better with her. She was a drill sergeant when it came to organizing events, but she would drive me crazy in the process.
For the first time, I realized that my mother really did need to feel useful. When she was in Texas, she was involved in society life and organized a frightening number of children’s beauty pageants, a society event that sparked her interest when I was a little girl. And one that she stuck with long after it was clear I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t sing, dance, twirl a baton, or fake a smile.
Mom left all of her friends and pageants behind for at least six months of the year for me. She wanted to be closer to me, even when I made it clear that I had no interest in moving back to Dallas because I had inherited my Amish aunt’s quilt shop.
I felt my quilting circle watching me. Talk about peer pressure. Of course a group of upstanding Amish ladies would make me feel guilty. “I’m sorry, Mom. I would love to have your help. In fact, I have a meeting with Austina—that’s the bookmobile librarian—tomorrow morning.” Restraining a sigh, I asked, “Would you like to come with me?”
Across the room, I felt Anna’s smile on me, and I knew I was doing the right thing, however painful it would end up being.
“Wonderful,” my mother said. “We’ll go to the meeting in the morning, and I think we could have a dinner to discuss it. I have been wanting to host a little dinner for you and the sheriff since the dining room has been done. What about tomorrow night?”
Murder, Plainly Read Page 2