“I’ll check with Mitchell,” I said.
Mom pursed her lips. “And why do you call him Mitchell? He’s your boyfriend, not some drill sergeant.”
I frowned. “I’ve always called him that.”
Mom tsked. “Don’t you think it’s high time you started calling him by his Christian name?”
My Amish friends busied themselves with tidying up the shop. There was no way they wanted to join in this conversation.
Rather than fight with her, I said, “Mom, I will pick you up at eight tomorrow for the meeting.”
She didn’t even hear me. She was too busy mumbling a task list to herself.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Oliver and I were up bright and early. Dodger was not a morning cat and yawned from his post at the end of my bed. Oliver barked at him.
“Let him sleep,” I told the Frenchie. “He’ll get in less trouble that way. Besides, we have to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s this morning. You know we can’t take Dodger there after he went jungle cat on Grandma’s new settee.”
Oliver wagged his stubby tail as if he understood every word, which of course I believed he did. My dog was that smart.
Dodger watched me with one eye before curling into an even tighter ball. Maybe he could understand English too. I wouldn’t be surprised if Oliver taught it to him.
An hour later, Oliver stood with his white forepaws on the dash of my little SUV as we made our way up the hill to my parents’ house. The home was a stone two-story affair and was larger than most of the Amish businesses in Rolling Brook. Below it, the hillside, peppered with sheep from a neighboring Amish farm, rolled into the valley below. Mums and autumn sedum decorated the walk from the driveway to the double front door.
Oliver wiggled his tail as he hopped out of the passenger side. He loved visiting my parents. I suspected that most of his excitement came from anticipating the tasty treats my father would sneak to him. Neither one of them could ever say no to a treat.
The front door opened even before we were out of the car. Dad filled the doorway. His round tummy hung over his belt, and he grinned from ear to ear.
My Frenchie galloped to my father and placed his paws on Dad’s leg.
Dad leaned over and gave him a good scratch between his one black and one white batlike ear. “I bought some new beef jerky. Don’t tell your mom.”
“I heard that,” I said as I came up the cobblestone walk.
Oliver put all four paws on the ground.
Dad wrinkled his nose. “Heard what? I didn’t say anything.” He pointed at Oliver. “Did you?”
I jabbed my hands into my hips. “I heard something about the beef jerky.” I looked from one to the other. “Which neither of you should have.”
Dad winked at Oliver.
I sighed. They were both hopeless.
Dad stepped through the front door and led us into the foyer. The chandelier that Jonah had mentioned sat in a huge crate in the middle of the floor waiting to be hung. Mom insisted that every formal foyer must have a chandelier, and she had spent months picking this one for their Holmes County home. It was smaller than the chandelier in my parents’ home back in Texas, but everything was bigger in Texas and rightfully so.
Oliver wagged his stubby tail as Dad slipped him a piece of the promised beef jerky from his pocket. I pretended not to notice and tried not to be alarmed that he carried it around in the breast pocket of his oxford shirt like a stick of gum.
Mom came down the main staircase in a royal blue business suit and black pumps that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She had a matching black briefcase tucked under her arm. “Angie, good—you’re right on time.” She checked the gold watch on her wrist as if to make sure that was true.
“Umm, Mom,” I said. “You look really nice, but you do know we’re just meeting with Austina to talk about the library book sale at her bookmobile. Don’t you at least want to change your shoes? It rained last night. Didn’t I tell you yesterday to wear comfortable shoes?”
“These are comfortable,” she said.
Sure they were.
My mother sniffed and touched the sleek chignon at the back of her head. “You have to look like you mean business when you go into a meeting like this, even if it’s volunteer work. A good outfit garners respect in negotiations.”
Negotiations? What negotiations? Where should the Westerns go?
I looked down at my cords and denim jacket, which I wore over my favorite French bulldog sweater. I had found the sweater online at seventy percent off. “If you say so.”
She sighed as if she had given up on trying to talk me into a proper wardrobe long ago.
Actually, a year before, when I had worked as a graphic designer for a high-powered advertising firm in Dallas, I had my share of power suits and fancy shoes. But, unlike Mom, I had always felt like I was wearing a costume. The casual look suited me better, and since I owned my own business, I could wear whatever I wanted. My one compromise to fashion were my beloved cowboy boots. I was even wearing them now. When I got up that morning, I knew I was going to need them since I was going to be stuck between Austina and my mother during the planning of the book sale.
After a lifetime as an executive with ironed pleats, Dad wore jeans and an untucked button-down shirt. His clothing choices made my mother’s right eye twitch.
“You look beautiful,” my dad told my mother.
She beamed, and I couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to know that love could last forty-plus years. My parents were the proof of that. I hoped I’d find the same thing someday. With one broken engagement under my belt, I wasn’t having much luck. My thoughts turned to Sheriff James Mitchell, but I pushed them away because I didn’t want to jinx anything. I could fret over the status of our relationship later with a vat of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.
My dad wrapped me in hug. “What’s wrong, AngieBear?”
I squeezed him back. “Nothing is wrong. I mean, other than the fact that I got roped into organizing another township function.”
He squinted at me suspiciously. “Well, I’m glad that you’ve involved your mother in it. It was all she talked about last night.”
Mom tugged on the bottom of her jacket, as if making sure it was perfectly straight, and arched her brow at my father. “You want to lend a hand?”
He waved her question away. “Oh no—you girls go and enjoy yourself. I will putter in my workshop before the day is out. Jonah was over here last night and taught me how to use the lathe.”
Mom looked as if she wanted to say something more but thought better of it. She was the one who’d told my dad to find a hobby. She’d just never expected power tools would be involved.
Dad patted my shoulder. “Your chair is almost done. Jonah gave me some tips about reinforcing the legs.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. The last chair my father had tried to make me had fallen apart the moment I sat on it. I had the bruises to prove it.
“I’m glad James will be joining us for dinner tonight. I haven’t seen him in a while,” he said. “I hope you and your mother will have a story to entertain us both during the meal.”
What I didn’t know then was we would have a very thrilling story to tell.
As Mom climbed into my car, I shot a quick text to Mitchell telling him about dinner at my parents’ house that night. I mentally smacked myself on the head. I’d forgotten to tell him about the dinner when my mom first invited us the day before.
Almost immediately, my phone beeped. “I’ll be there,” the return text read.
I opened the door and Oliver hopped into the back of the car. He circled twice on the backseat before settling on the flannel blanket I kept back there for him.
Mom straightened her knee-length skirt as she settled into her seat. “You know, the bookmobile used t
o visit school when I was a little girl. We didn’t have a library in the building back then.”
I put my keys in the ignition. “I didn’t know that.”
“Your father would always carry my stack of books home for me after library day.” She smiled.
Sometimes I forgot that my mother and father were high school sweethearts and knew each other since they were schoolchildren. I wondered what that would be like. Mom and Dad knew everything about each other’s history. I knew so little about Mitchell. There were so many blank spots in my knowledge of his personal history. I hadn’t even met his parents yet. They’d retired to Florida. Although at least I knew his son, Zander, well, and his ex-wife, Hillary, was sort of my friend—okay, maybe “friend” was pushing it—but we didn’t want to claw each other’s eyes out on sight.
The drive from my parents’ house to the pie factory took less than twenty minutes. I was grateful for the short drive. The entire time, my mother shared her “great” ideas for the book sale, and I grew more anxious by the second.
I powered down my window as we rolled along Sugartree Street. The township was just waking up. The only business with its lights on was Miller’s Amish Bakery right across the street from Running Stitch. Rachel and her husband would have been at the bakery for hours preparing fresh breads, pies, and other baked goods for the day. My car slowed. I could really use a blueberry muffin to survive this meeting.
Mom noticed. “There’s no time for snacks, Angie. We don’t want to be late.”
Oliver and I sighed in tandem. Sometimes I thought we shared the same spirit, at least when it came to muffins.
Beyond Running Stitch and the bakery were yarn and woodworkers’ shops. Finally the sidewalk ended, and we turned into the huge parking lot for the pie factory. The factory itself was a one-level L-shaped brick building. The parking lot was as large as the sprawling building itself. The silver-and-green bookmobile and a small compact car, which I assumed was Austina’s, were parked in the farthest corner from the factory entrance under a large oak tree. Over a year before, an old abandoned barn had occupied this property. It had burned to the ground, but I was glad to see the majestic tree had survived the fire and the new construction.
Other than the bookmobile and Austina’s car, the parking lot was empty, since Rachel and Aaron were at the bakery and the factory hadn’t opened yet. In less than a week, the pie factory would surely be one of the busiest businesses on the street. Rachel said they were already processing orders for restaurants and shops all over Holmes County and beyond. I was happy for my friends. It took a lot of convincing to have the township trustees concede to the factory. Some of them were still unhappy with the final decision.
I stepped out of the car and wrapped my scarf a third time around my neck. There was definitely a cold bite in the wind, reminding me that winter would arrive sooner than any of us liked. Maybe it was the cold wind, but a chill ran down my spine as I opened the back door to my car and let Oliver out. Noting the chilly temperature, I wondered whether I should have made him wear one of his winter sweaters.
“Where is Austina?” Mom asked.
“She’s probably inside the bookmobile, where it’s warm.”
My mother wrapped her thin arms around her waist and shivered. “The least she could do is come out to meet us.”
I silently agreed. My apprehension rose since Austina didn’t appear in the doorway to the bookmobile. It was too quiet. She must have heard my car drive up in the stillness. I swallowed and walked toward the bookmobile. Mom and Oliver were on my heels. “Austina!” I called.
A sound between a grunt and a whimper came from the bookmobile.
I frowned. “Mom, stay here.”
“Why?” she asked.
I couldn’t think of a good answer other than, “I want to make sure Austina is ready for us, that’s all.”
She frowned at her watch. “It’s eight thirty. She should be ready for us.”
“Mom. Please?”
She sniffed and pulled the wool sleeve of her peacoat over her watch. “All right, but I hope I don’t have to wait out here in the cold too long.”
I managed to stop myself from rolling my eyes. It was a habit I was trying to break. “Oliver can stay with you.”
My Frenchie plopped down next to my mother’s feet on the pavement as if on guard. He wasn’t very intimidating security, but I appreciated the effort.
I climbed the steps to the bookmobile and knocked on the metal door. There was no answer.
I tried the door handle, and the door swung inward. The inside of the vehicle was bright. All the lights were on. Spotlights focused on the dark corners, so that the book titles and call numbers could be easily read by the library staff and patrons.
“Austina?” I called out as I scanned the area.
The small circulation desk at the back of the bookmobile was clear, and the small worktable behind the passenger seat was stacked high with books in the middle of being priced for sale. The bookmobile was ready for a day of literary business—except for the dead body in the middle of the aisle, lying on its side in front of the cookbooks.
Bartholomew Beiler had not been an attractive man alive, and he looked even worse dead. There was a deep gash on his forehead. His right arm was outstretched as if he’d been reaching for something. I turned away before I could see how much blood had pooled and soaked into the carpet.
Trembling from head to foot, Austina loomed over the body. “This—it’s not what it looks like.”
What did it look like? my addled brain wondered. It looked like Austina was standing over the dead body of a man who I had witnessed her in a heated argument with less than twenty-four hours before. What was it supposed to look like? That she’d murdered her adversary? Because it just might. I opened and closed my mouth, but no words came out.
Austina stammered words I couldn’t understand. “I got here five minutes before you and found him this way—I swear it.” Her dark eyes pleaded me with. “Angie, you have to believe me that I had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with this.”
Then my mother stepped into the bookmobile and screamed.
Chapter Four
I always thought my mom was meant to be an actress. Her bloodcurdling scream à la Fay Wray in King Kong proved me right. I would probably need my eardrum replaced when the ringing stopped.
I rubbed my ear. “Mom, geez, calm down.”
“Calm down?” she screeched. “That’s a dead body! Not everyone is used to seeing dead bodies, Angie.” She gave me a pointed look.
True. I had seen my share of dead bodies since moving to Ohio. I didn’t find them. They seemed to find me. Or maybe I just had really bad luck.
“We need to leave the bookmobile and call the police.” I turned to my left. “Austina, have you called the police?”
She shook her head dumbly.
Mom crept a few feet farther into the bookmobile and peered down at Bartholomew, showing me that she was made of sterner stuff than I’d thought. “Are you sure he’s dead? Shouldn’t we check?”
He sure appeared dead when I first entered the bookmobile, but Mom was right. We needed to be certain. If there was any chance we could save the bishop, we had to try.
I dared to take another look at Bartholomew. His face was drained of all color. I averted my eyes from the gash. “I think he’s dead.” But just to be safe, I squatted beside him and touched his neck, looking for a pulse, careful to touch a place free of blood. His skin was stone cold. “He’s dead. Let’s go.” I jumped up like a coiled spring.
Once the three of us had exited the bookmobile, I called 911 on my cell. The dispatcher recognized my voice immediately. She doubled as the sheriff’s secretary. I had spoken to her many times since Mitchell and I’d started dating. “Angie, did you find a dead guy or something?”
I didn’t answer right away.
I told her the details, happy to see Oliver was safe and standing at my feet.
The dispatcher sucked in a breath, and I heard the rapid clicking of her keyboard through my phone. “The sheriff isn’t going to be happy about this.”
No, I supposed he wouldn’t.
“Do you want me to call him?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said quickly. That was good. At least I could postpone hearing Mitchell’s freak-out over my involvement in another murder. The freak-out would come, but I was happy to wait.
Austina leaned on the hood of my car. She was shaking. I pocketed my cell phone, pulled a blanket out of my car, and wrapped it around Austina’s shoulders. I hoped that she didn’t have a problem with the thick layer of dog fur. “Are you all right?”
Oliver walked over and lay on the top of her shoes as if trying to keep her feet warm.
She gripped the blanket across her chest. “I didn’t do that. I would never do that. You believe me, don’t you, Angie?”
“Of course,” I said, but I wasn’t positive it was the truth. I didn’t know what I believed when it came to Bartholomew Beiler’s death.
She jerked her right hand from the blanket and grabbed my arm. “Angie, you have to help me. Everyone in the county will think I killed Bartholomew. He died in my bookmobile, and I’ve been arguing with him for months. You have to find the real killer.”
“Maybe he wasn’t murdered.” I wriggled out of her grasp.
“He was murdered. Did you see that gash on his head?”
I had. “Austina, I don’t think I should get involved. Mitchell will sort it out. He’s a good cop.” I glanced at my mother, who was wringing her hands over and over again on the handle of her briefcase. She looked ready to sell high-end real estate in the big city, not be questioned by the police about a murder in Amish Country.
“This is a bishop, Angie. He’s a very influential bishop. Whether the other Amish in Holmes County agree with him or not, they will put pressure on the sheriff to find out who did this.”
Murder, Plainly Read Page 3