“I wasn’t trying to weasel,” I whined. My mother brought the whiner out in me.
Mom tapped her freshly manicured fingernail on her legal pad for emphasis. “Yes, you were. I could tell by the way you were inching toward the exit. We need you.”
“Why on earth would you need me?”
Willow smiled. “Because you being there will put the Amish at ease.” Her eyes glittered. “And it will be a perfect chance for you to snoop.”
I was about to argue with her when Delia came back. “Ladies, your color should be set. My assistants will come back to wash you out.”
I took that as my cue to beat a hasty retreat.
Delia grabbed my hand midair. “Your cuticles! They are a disaster.”
I wrenched my hand away and peered at my nails. They weren’t that bad.
Delia clicked her tongue. “You could really use a decent manicure.”
I hid my hand behind my back. “My nails are fine.”
“Delia’s right,” my mother chimed in. “Give her a manicure, Delia, and put it on my tab.”
Her tab? My mother was running a tab at Prim and Curl? Did my father know about this?
Delia smiled. “Luckily, I had a cancellation, so I can squeeze you in right now.”
“Delia is a master,” Willow said. “You won’t regret it. I don’t know how she does it.”
The hairstylist blushed. “I’ll do my best.” She picked up my hand. “I think I will have to do some serious filing. I’d better get out my big file.”
“Your big file?” My nails were cut short, but I didn’t think they looked that bad. Although I had to admit, they weren’t as lovely as they had been when I lived in Dallas. In my old advertising office, manicures had been a way of life to keep up with fashionable ladies in the department. I ended up in the seat across from Delia and had my fingers dipped in a bowl of soapy water.
Delia held up two bottles of nail polish. “Pink or red?”
I sighed. “Can I have blue?”
She smiled. “You got it.”
Chapter Twenty-three
I left Prim and Curl with a serious headache from inhaling all the fumes and an amazing manicure. Mom was right. Delia was a genius when it came to nails. After I collected Oliver from my father, I walked back to my car.
I was busy admiring my nails on the stroll back. “Umph,” I grunted when I walked into someone. I looked up from my manicure and found the elderly Nahum Shetler standing in front of me. I hadn’t seen Nahum face-to-face in several months. His face was deeply wrinkled from hours in the sun, and his Amish beard grizzled, giving him a wild, untamed appearance that I had once compared to Rip Van Winkle’s after waking from his twenty-year slumber.
Nahum curled his lip at me. “You!”
“Hello to you too,” I said.
Oliver hid behind my legs.
The Amish man scowled.
Nahum is always such a nice guy, I thought sarcastically. I still marveled at how he could be Rachel’s biological father. She was the sweetest person on the planet, and he could double for Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. This proved the nurture over nature theory.
His frown deepened. “How is my daughter?”
“Rachel?” I squeaked.
He folded his arms. “She is the only daughter I have.”
I swallowed. “Rachel is fine.”
He looked away from me. “I am glad she is well. Knowing that is all I need.”
I swallowed. “She and her husband are opening the pie factory in Rolling Brook this weekend.” I mentally clapped a hand over my mouth. Rachel would kill me if she knew I’d spoken to Nahum about her.
“I’ve heard about that. I thought of going, but she won’t want me there.”
“Do you want to talk to her? She is your only daughter.”
“Don’t meddle in things you can’t possibly understand.” He clenched his teeth.
I bit the inside of my bottom lip, holding back a smart retort. “She needs to know her father,” I said. I couldn’t help myself.
He held on to the end of his unruly beard. “What do you know of it? Did she tell you she wanted to talk to me?”
I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets. “Not exactly.”
He tossed his beard onto his shoulder. “Then she does not.”
“You could have a relationship with her if you chose to,” I said, keenly aware that I was breaking my promise to Rachel by getting involved in her relationship with her father. “Rachel was an innocent baby when you sent her to live with her mother’s family. She had no choice in the matter. Now, as an adult, she has a choice to see you.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “You seem to think you always know the right from wrong. It will be a sad day for you when you find out the truth.”
I had a feeling we weren’t talking about Rachel any longer. “What are you talking about?”
He leaned in, and I could smell stale coffee on his breath. “I have heard you’re poking your nose into the death of Bartholomew Beiler.”
I didn’t say anything, but I took a step back out of range. I bumped into Oliver, who shuffled out of the way.
He smirked. “So it is true. Not that I doubted my sources.”
“You have sources?” My eyebrows rose. “Who would those be?”
“Your friend the librarian isn’t so innocent,” he said in a harsh whisper.
My body tensed. “How do you know that?”
“I know because I saw her coming from the library van late at night. She was there close to after midnight, and then she drove way.”
I swallowed. “It’s called a bookmobile.”
“Does the name matter?” He snorted. “She came out of the vehicle where Bartholomew died, long before you found her and reported it to the police.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“I see I planted a tiny kernel of doubt in your mind. It’s a terrible thing, doubt. It is sure to grow whether we choose to feed it or not.”
“Have you told this to the police?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. “I have no use for your Englisch rule of law. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.” He smiled. “But you can tell them. You should tell them, shouldn’t you? Will you tell your sheriff who you seem to care so much about, or will you keep it a secret to protect your friend? Have I put you in a tough spot?” He stepped around me and walked away.
I stared after him, knowing I should call Mitchell that very second. It was important information in the case, but part of me wanted to talk to Austina first. Maybe she could explain why she was at the bookmobile so late at night. Why hadn’t she told me? Didn’t she ask for my help? How could I help her if I didn’t have all the facts?
I picked up Oliver and hurried back toward my car at a light jog. What I didn’t ask Nahum was what he was doing around Rachel and Aaron’s pie factory at night.
I headed back to the shop. Running Stitch was quiet when I arrived. We didn’t have any customers. Mattie asked if she could go to the pie factory to help her brother prepare for the grand opening the next day. I let her go. I had a lot to think about—mainly about whether I would tell Mitchell what I’d just learned from Nahum.
As she was tying on her bonnet, Mattie said, “You should come down to the factory after you close the shop for the day. Aaron is having a tasting for the fall pies. He wants to have some new offerings for Thanksgiving and wants to showcase them this weekend too.”
I perked up. “Pie tasting? Now you’re speaking my language.”
She laughed. “Come after the shop closes. I’ll tell him to wait for you.”
I rubbed my hands together. “Excellent.”
She smiled and left.
Even with the promise of pie, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over me when I ran into Nahum in Millersburg. I knew I
should call Mitchell and tell him what I knew. I didn’t want our relationship to be built on anything other than trust. I had already had one engagement fall apart. I didn’t want my relationship with the sheriff to end in the same way.
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and decided that, if he answered, I would confess everything. If he didn’t answer, well, I’d tried, right?
The phone rang twice and went directly to voice mail, indicating that Mitchell had silenced it. He could be in a meeting or in the middle of a takedown; I never knew. In any case, my conscience was cleared. I tried to tell him about Austina and the bookmobile, but he wasn’t available to hear about it. I told myself this was the kind of information that shouldn’t be left in a voice mail.
At four thirty, I locked Dodger inside Running Stitch—Oliver and I would pick him up on the way home—and made our way up the street to Miller’s Amish Pie Factory. The bakery, the Millers’ first business, was already closed for the day and the lights were out.
I kicked at a leaf on the sidewalk, and Oliver galloped after it. I wondered whether I should tell Rachel about my conversation with her father. He didn’t want to talk to her. If I told her that, it would hurt her. That’s the last thing I wanted. I only wanted Rachel to be happy. I thought making peace with her father was the best way for her to do that, but was I right? Rachel appeared to be happy on the surface, but there had been a melancholy cloud hovering over her the last year, ever since her father had resurfaced.
Sugartree Road was lined with small maple trees bursting in fall color and looked like red-orange torches guiding Oliver and me up the sidewalk. A buggy clopped up the street, and I waved to the driver. It was another shopkeeper. The quaintness of Rolling Brook struck me. It was not the sort of place where you would expect murder to occur, but it had, and more than once.
Instead of going in the front entrance, I went around back to the parking lot, so that I could have a view of the book sale setup.
As promised, the volunteers had set up a white tent there for the library book sale, as well as half a dozen Amish farm stands for the farmers’ market Aaron was trying out that weekend. I hoped it would help. A weekly farmers’ market would bring lots of business to Rolling Brook. I could see the advantages that it would bring, both as a business owner on Sugartree Street and as a township trustee.
Beyond the book sale tent and the farmers’ stands there was a thick tree line. I could easily imagine Nahum watching the bookmobile from those trees. For a second time, I wished that I had asked him why he had been there. Not that I thought he would have told me.
I opened the back door and stepped into the factory. The door immediately opened into a long, narrow room. There were windows on either side of the room that peeked out onto the factory floor so that those visiting the bakery could watch the production. On the other side of the glass, huge vats of milk, sugar, and spices stood in galvanized containers. The Amish bakers measured ingredients out and poured them into giant mixing bowls that could swallow a person whole.
Fluorescent lighting filled the viewing room and the factory floor. There was electricity, yes, but not as much as you would see in an English factory. The Millers’ Amish district allowed them to use electricity where it was required by English law, in order to follow FDA regulations for preparing and selling food. The milk and other dairy products were in refrigerated cases. There was no motorized conveyer belt. The Amish workers walked from station to station rolling the materials and ingredients they needed on carts.
Aaron, Rachel, and Mattie were all in the viewing room. A long folding table was set up and there was a line of ten pies on it.
They weren’t alone. There were three other Amish people with them. Two middle-aged women whom I recognized from town, but I didn’t know their names. The third person I knew. It was Phillip Truber, Phoebe’s brother, who had stormed into the schoolhouse the day before, and he didn’t look happy to see me.
Chapter Twenty-four
Phillip continued to scowl as I hovered in the doorway. I hadn’t come to the pie factory to deal with the bishop’s murder. In fact, I was looking forward to escaping from it for a bit. My thoughts were so muddled when it came to Austina’s case.
Mattie waved me over. “Angie, you’re just in time. We were about to start the tasting. I told Aaron to wait for you.”
I shook myself and forced myself to pay attention. There was pie that needed tasting, and by golly, I was up for the challenge. I could always think better after a dose of sugar. It was my brain food.
Oliver’s toenails clicked on the laminate floor as we moved across it.
I grinned. “Thanks for inviting me. You know I can always be counted on to taste your baked goods, Aaron.”
Rachel’s quiet husband nodded. “Ya, I do know this.”
I nodded at Phillip. “Nice to see you again.”
His scowl deepened. “Is it?”
Rachel frowned. “Do you know each other?”
“I met Phillip yesterday when I was talking to his sister Phoebe.”
“Ya,” Phillip said. “Angie was at my sister’s school.” He pressed his lips into a disapproving line.
Aaron’s frown matched his. He probably suspected that I had been meddling again, which I had been.
Rachel’s brow wrinkled. I knew dozens of questions were flashing through her head, but she wouldn’t ask me until we were alone and away from her husband. Aaron had come a long way since I had met him, but he still wouldn’t want his wife—or his sister, for that matter—involved in a murder investigation, even if the murder occurred on his property.
Rachel said, “Phillip works here.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
Aaron nodded. “Since I can’t be two places at one time, I hired him a couple of weeks ago to oversee the operations in the pie factory.”
“He used to work in a smaller bakery in Wayne County,” Mattie said.
I wished she had told me all this yesterday.
Phillip nodded. “The pie factory is much closer to my home. I’m grateful for that.”
I had so many questions running through my head, but I forced myself to be quiet. I hoped Mattie had the answers. I planned to grill her later.
Rachel picked up a knife and started cutting into the pies. The scents of pumpkin and cinnamon filled the room.
Oliver danced at my feet.
“I know that pumpkin and apple are the traditional pies for the holidays, but I wanted to offer a signature pie from the factory. We will sell it in the shop too. I’d like it to be one we have each year. It’s a celebration of the factory finally opening.” Aaron met my eyes. “We could not have done that without you, Angie. You know my family and I are so grateful.”
I grinned. “I find it my duty to protect everyone’s right to pie.”
Rachel and Mattie laughed. Aaron smiled. As far as I knew, he never laughed, but a smile was a victory in my opinion.
Phillip folded his arms and scowled. Clearly, he was not enjoying this, and he probably would have bolted the moment I walked into the factory if it hadn’t been his job to stay there.
Mattie handed each of us a notecard and a pencil. “After you taste them all, number your favorites one to ten.”
Rachel lined up the cut pieces on the table. Five small pieces from each pie. I chose the pumpkin fluff first. I had been eyeing it since I’d set foot in the factory. The first bite dissolved in my mouth. It was like a whipped pumpkin dream.
I took two more bites, swallowed, and pointed at it with my fork. “This one. Definitely.”
Mattie laughed. “You haven’t even tried the others.”
“I don’t have to. I know this is it.” I set down my plate and picked up the next sample, an apple cinnamon roll pie. “But I will try the others in the name of product research.”
The apple cinnamon was wonderful too. Ac
tually, each pie was delicious, but nothing beat the pumpkin fluff in my mind. When I thought no one was looking, I went back for seconds of that one.
“Trying to steal an extra slice of the pumpkin fluff?” a voice asked.
I froze with the pie knife suspended in the air.
Phillip Truber took the knife from my hand and cut me a generous piece. I was definitely counting this tasting as my dinner tonight.
I accepted the plate from him. “Thanks. I could eat the entire pie myself, and I’m definitely getting one of these for my dad when they go into production. I can already hear his lips smacking. I inherited my sweet tooth from him.”
Phillip watched me. “You talk a lot.”
I shrugged. There was no denying it.
“The pumpkin fluff is my recipe,” he said.
I raised my fork to him. “My compliments to the baker.”
Rachel, Aaron, and Mattie were on the other side of the room near the cash register, tabulating the votes.
He nodded. “Thank you.” He started to stack dirty plates and silverware into a plastic tub. He didn’t look up from his work when he asked, “Why were you visiting my sister’s school yesterday?”
I shoved another forkful of pie into my mouth.
“I know it has something to do with the bishop’s death.” His brow furrowed. “You couldn’t possibly believe that my sister had anything to do with it. Are you the reason the police came to my house later that day?”
I swallowed and wished I had a glass of water. “The police came to your house?”
“Ya.” He glared at me. “They wanted to talk to Phoebe too. I can only assume that that is your fault.”
I took a breath. “I suppose in a way it is.”
He narrowed his eyes in surprise that I would admit to it so readily.
“I saw Phoebe on Wednesday when I stopped by the bookmobile. When I got there, Austina and the bishop were arguing.”
“She wasn’t in the bookmobile,” he said, a little too sharply.
“N-no, but it was parked right outside her schoolhouse, so she witnessed the argument. She was in the doorway of her school.”
Murder, Plainly Read Page 15