“Perfect. I was telling the Finnegans about Amish donuts when they checked in yesterday and I thought it would be a nice surprise to serve some with breakfast this morning.” Diane opened the refrigerator and pulled out a dozen eggs and a carton of milk in preparation for the scrambled eggs on the morning menu. “We missed you last night. Did you have fun?”
She couldn’t help but smile at the hopeful tone Diane didn’t even try to hide. “I did. Very much. But I wasn’t with Jakob . . . in case you were wondering.”
Diane crossed to the stove and the waiting skillet. “I wasn’t.”
Securing a knife from the utility drawer beneath the center island’s countertop, Claire began a silent count to ten, her aunt’s anticipated next question coming before she even got to three. “So who were you with?”
If it were any other adult, she may have found the inquiry nosy, but, considering it was Diane, she simply laughed. “You really are very transparent, you know that?”
Diane’s hand stopped just short of cracking an egg against the side of the skillet. “Transparent? Me?”
Claire cut the dough into slices and set them back on the floured board to rise one last time. “Don’t think I haven’t seen how dog-eared that bridal magazine is in the parlor. Because I have . . .”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.”
“Oh . . . okay. I suppose Wendy Finnegan has been looking at it and reminiscing about her marriage to Todd, right?”
“Maybe.”
When she had a dozen slices lined up on the board, she covered it with a dishcloth and noted the time on the clock. “Diane, we’re just trying to figure out what this is right now. See if we’re meant to date or remain friends.”
Diane cracked a few more eggs and then adjusted the temperature on the burner. “That’s the problem with young people today. They spend too much time thinking and analyzing. Just live. Date. See what happens.”
She bit back the urge to say Peter’s name, the mere memory of her ex-husband and their failed marriage a springboard for a bad day. Instead, she changed the subject and hoped it would stick. “I had dinner with Esther and Eli last night.”
Diane bit. “Oh? How are they?”
“They’re—” She stopped, inhaled, and searched for something to say that would finish her statement without divulging news of the couple’s impending new addition. Jakob needed to be the next to know.
“They’re enjoying the house and, Diane, you should see what they’ve done with the place. Harley would be pleased, I’m sure.”
“Was Benjamin there?”
The question brought her up short as did the wooden tone in which it was posed. “No. He wasn’t. Not that that would have been a bad thing. We’re friends, Diane. Nothing more.”
Diane glanced over her shoulder at Claire, the worry in her eyes impossible to miss. “I want to believe that, Claire, I really do. But I know that he stopped by Thursday evening and that he spent time with you on the porch.”
She grabbed hold of the bowl and began to stir the glaze mixture, her thoughts quickly traveling back to the porch and the reason for Ben’s visit as she did. “He came because he was upset. He wanted to know if he was reading into her words.”
“Her words?” Diane parroted just before she added a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper to the bubbling mixture in the skillet.
“The last few weeks of Elizabeth’s life, she kept a journal. It was Ben’s idea. He’d hoped it would be a way for her to work through whatever was bothering her.”
“Go on . . .”
“He thought she was second-guessing their marriage. She insisted she wasn’t. But she wouldn’t tell him what was wrong. He figured it had something to do with Sadie, so he gave Elizabeth the notebook. When she died, he put it in her hope chest and didn’t read it until the other day, when he went into the chest after Jakob mentioned a bracelet found alongside Sadie’s remains.”
Pushing aside the glaze bowl once again, Claire lifted the dishcloth from the board and inspected the puffy dough. “I think these are just about ready for the deep fryer.”
Diane pointed a spatula at Claire. “Don’t stop. Keep talking.”
She slipped off the cushioned stool and carried the floured board and dough slices over to the deep fryer and the waiting fat. “Unfortunately, it looks as if Elizabeth knew Sadie was dead.”
The gasp from the other side of the kitchen wasn’t much different from the one she herself had made when she got to the page in Elizabeth’s journal that brought that fact home. “Trust me, I know. I feel so bad for Ben right now. This has to be eating him up inside.”
A glance in the direction of the stove showed that Diane was wrapped up in the tale Claire was weaving. “Diane . . . the eggs?”
Diane shook her head and turned back to the skillet, her attention still riveted on their conversation. “What did she write?”
One by one, she dropped the dough slices into the fryer and hovered above them at the ready. “She talked about knowing and not telling anyone. She talked about a few of her Rumspringa friends and how they seem to have forgotten . . . but she couldn’t.”
“Forgotten Sadie?”
“Forgotten her death, we believe.” When the slices were a golden color, she plucked them from the fryer and placed them on a rack. “Last night, at Esther’s, I was able to figure out who two of the people Elizabeth mentioned are. But there was one I couldn’t figure out.”
“Who is that?” Diane retrieved a large serving bowl from the cabinet to the left of the sink and set it beside the stove in preparation for the eggs. “Maybe I can help.”
Returning to the island, Claire retrieved the bowl of maple glaze and gave it another quick stir. When it was the right consistency, she carried it back to the waiting donuts and began the process of dipping each one. “She mentioned Miriam—”
“Miriam Hochstetler, now Stoltzfus.”
Claire nodded. “And Leroy Beiler.”
“Eva Hershberger’s husband.”
“And a Michael . . .”
“O’Neil,” Diane supplied without so much as a hint of hesitation.
She looked up from the second to last donut and studied her aunt. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Because we were talking about him the other night. When Jakob was here. He’s running for mayor of Heavenly.”
“You mean the one that’s the son of the former mayor?”
“Ryan O’Neil,” Diane said with a quick but firm nod. “Yes, he’s the one. He—”
“Wait. Didn’t Jakob say something that night about this Mike guy being part of Elizabeth’s Rumspringa crew on account of Miriam Hochstetler?”
Diane nodded again then scooped the eggs into the bowl. “Yes, because he was.”
“How did the son of an English mayor get involved with an Amish teenage girl?”
Yanking a nearby drawer open, Diane fished out a dishcloth and draped it over the bowl to keep the eggs warm. When she was done, she retrieved a basket from the corner hutch and brought it over to Claire for the freshly glazed donuts. “Michael was a bit of a troublemaker. Some folks in town chalked it up to his being the mayor’s son and knowing he could get away with things—which he did, often. Some folks chalked it up to a desperate plea to get his father’s attention—which was always on other things. But, regardless of the reason, he was drawn to trouble and creating trouble. Befriending a sweet Amish girl and her friends and then leading them astray was just another way to accomplish that goal.”
“And this guy actually has a chance to be mayor?” She set the basket back on the island and grabbed a pot holder from a nearby drawer. “Does he even have a shot?”
“A very good one, from what I can see.” Diane lifted the bowl of eggs with one hand and the basket of donuts with the other and headed for the kitchen door. Claire followed behind with the piping-hot casserole dish. “Mike’s father was ousted from his mayoral seat eight years ago by Don Smith. Don is running
again, but he’s getting tired. Couple that with the fact that Mike is willing to address road problems and other little bothersome issues we’ve had in this town in a way that won’t affect people’s wallets, and, well, that speaks to people.”
Diane set the bowls on the serving table and waited for Claire to do the same with the casserole. Footsteps on the stairs let them know they were right on time. “But can he handle the job?”
“I think he can. He’s grown into a fine young man in spite of being pushed around by his father. He’s engaged now, I believe, and wanting to raise his own family here one day. His troublemaking days are over.” Diane smoothed her hands down the sides of her waist-tied apron and smiled at the first pair of guests who entered the dining room from the front hallway. “Good morning, Wendy. Good morning, Tom. How did you sleep?”
What the Finnegans said in response, Claire didn’t hear, her thoughts ricocheting in different directions even as she, too, managed a greeting for the next two couples. Once everyone was settled at the table with full plates and mugs, she returned to the kitchen with Diane, her eyes automatically shifting to the clock.
“Has Jakob seen Elizabeth’s journal?” Diane leaned against the refrigerator for a well-earned, albeit quick break.
Claire grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and moved around the room, wiping and cleaning counters as she walked. “He has.”
“I can’t imagine Benjamin is too happy about that.”
“It was his idea.” She stopped beside the fryer, double-checked everything was turned off, and then continued on, stopping every few feet to spray and wipe. “Though, now that I say that, I realize I owe him an update.”
“What did Jakob say?”
She finished the final counter and moved on to the oven doors, her cloth sliding across the handle with a practiced hand. “He’s worried about the extent to which Elizabeth may have been involved in Sadie’s death. If she knew and didn’t say anything, it makes it look an awful lot like she had something to hide.”
“Oh dear. I can’t imagine that sweet young thing being involved in someone’s death. It just doesn’t fit.”
Claire finished with the handle and turned around, an unexpected anger rising up inside her chest. “That sweet young thing knew a woman’s child was dead and buried and said nothing.”
“Claire!”
“I’m sorry, Diane, I know you thought highly of Elizabeth, as did Ben and Jakob.” She crossed to the sink and set the cleaner and cloth beside the faucet. “That said, I can’t keep from thinking about Sadie’s mother, Waneta. Esther said the woman was certain she’d see her daughter again. Elizabeth let her believe that.”
“Didn’t you say that Elizabeth was likely on her way to tell the truth when she died?” Diane reminded.
“I did.”
“That should count for something.”
Did it?
“But what about Waneta? And all the false hope she had?”
“It’s a tragedy, dear. But she will see her daughter again one day.” Diane closed the gap between them and pressed a gentle hand to Claire’s back. “Jakob will find the truth. You know that.”
“But what happens if that truth hurts Benjamin? What then?” She hadn’t realized the question was on the tip of her tongue until it was too late to call it back. Instead, she rushed to explain it before there was even a chance for misinterpretation. “I mean, isn’t it bad enough he had to lose his wife in such a tragic accident? Does he really need to remember her as being dishonest at best? And a potential murderer at worst?”
Diane pulled her hand away and covered her gasp. “A murderer?”
“She knew, didn’t she?”
“Yes, I suppose, but . . .” Diane’s words trailed off only to reappear in starts and stops. “Didn’t you say others knew, too?”
She turned to face her aunt as the woman’s meaning took root. “Elizabeth mentioned Miriam Hochstetler, Leroy Beiler, and this Michael O’Neil and wondered if they thought about Sadie, too.”
“Then perhaps the guilt lies elsewhere.”
Claire reached behind her back, untied her apron strings, and then looped them around the hook beside the refrigerator. “You’re right, Aunt Diane. If nothing else, Elizabeth’s journal makes it very clear she wasn’t the only one in on the secret. And at least it bothered her.”
Diane peeked out the window at the Amish fields in the distance, the morning sun bathing the brown earth in golden rays. “The truth has a way of making itself known. Sometimes it takes longer than we’d hope, but eventually it comes out . . . as it did when the Stoltzfus barn burned to the ground. If it hadn’t burned, that body may have gone undetected for another eighteen or nineteen years.”
“Makes you almost wonder why now? Doesn’t it? Why now—when Elizabeth has been dead for so many years? Why now—after the Lehmans no longer own the property where their daughter has been buried all this time? Why now—when Michael O’Neil has finally decided to run for mayor?”
“Because timing is ultimately up to God, not us.” Slowly, Diane returned her focus to the room and Claire, her finger shooting upward to the wall clock and the approaching ten o’clock hour. “Getting to your shop in time to open, though, is up to you. I’ve got the rest of this under control so, please, go. The last thing we need in Heavenly is a busload of disappointed tourists.”
Chapter 9
She didn’t need the rumble of her stomach to know she’d worked through lunch. The near-constant hum of the cash register and virtually empty pile of shopping bags beside it told the story of her day all on its own.
Something about the ten-degree bump in the forecast, and the promise of spring it ushered in, had done a better job of bringing foot traffic to Lighted Way than any newspaper advertisement ever could. All day long the string of bells over her front door jangled away as the curious arrived and the satisfied departed. And all day long she’d answered questions, restocked shelves that seemed to empty as quickly as she filled them, and added more and more money to her bottom line.
It was, in three words, a perfect day.
Save, of course, the simple fact that a busy day made her miss Esther in very different ways than a quiet day did. When customer traffic was light, she longed for the camaraderie she’d shared with her Amish friend. When it was high, as it was that day, she mourned the extra set of capable hands that allowed her to answer questions and replenish inventory all at the same time.
Still, missing lunch and running ragged were very good problems to have when the reason behind both meant customers. Without their buying the beautiful items her Amish friends made, she wouldn’t have her shop. And without her shop, she wouldn’t be able to live in Heavenly.
Taking advantage of her first lull in customers all day, Claire closed her eyes against the image of a reality that had almost come true. Yet, because of talented craftsmen like Eli and Ben and their belief in her and her shop, she’d been able to keep Heavenly Treasures open.
“Ruth thinks you have not eaten today and that I must bring you food.”
She peered at Ben through freshly parted lashes and laughed. “Well, aren’t you and that basket a sight for sore eyes.”
“So it is true? You have not eaten?”
Slumping onto the closest stool, she allowed herself the first big sigh of the day. “People were waiting outside the door when I opened this morning and they didn’t stop coming until about two minutes ago.”
“That is a good problem to have.” He set the basket on the counter and pointed at the red-and-white-checked covering. “Ruth said there is a sandwich inside. Cookies, too.”
Her stomach rumbled long and loud, eliciting a smile on Ben’s otherwise tired face in response. “Perhaps you should eat now before you cannot hear the next customer.”
“Very funny.” She pushed aside the covering, reached for the sandwich, and made short work of its matching red-and-white-checked parchment paper covering. “I imagine your sister’s place has been nonstop all day,
too.”
Ben’s ocean blue eyes briefly disappeared beneath the rim of his straw hat as he nodded. “She is out of Shoo Fly Pie and apple pie, too. I believe she has her lemon meringue and a dozen or so more of those cookies”—he gestured again, toward the basket—“left. But that is it. It was a good day for her bakery, too.”
She looked from Ben to the remaining half of her sandwich and back again. “Would you like half?”
“It is not food that I need.”
Something about the way he spoke made her look up again and really focus on her friend. There, in his eyes, she saw more than just fatigue.
She set her half-eaten lunch back on the parchment paper and patted the vacant stool to her right. “Will you sit?”
“No.”
“I wish you would. Since Esther stopped working I never have anyone to talk to during lunch.”
“Claire.”
An unusual rasp to the man’s normally steady voice brought her up short. This time, when her stomach rumbled, it wasn’t from hunger. “Is Esther okay? Did something happen with the baby?”
“Esther is fine.”
Relieved, she reached for her sandwich and took another bite. “Then what’s wrong? Why do you look so—so—” She stopped, lowered her sandwich back to the paper, and silently chastised herself as she rose to her feet. “Ben, I’m sorry. I should have gotten back to you after I spoke to Jakob yesterday morning. But when I finally left the station, I came straight back here. Then, after I closed, I went to Eli and Esther’s for dinner. I had hoped you might stop by so we could have a private word, but you didn’t.”
“What did Jakob say? Does he think as we do? That Elizabeth knew of Sadie’s death before her accident?”
She considered how much to say, how much the widower really needed to know at that point. Did she tell him his childhood friend must now consider his late wife a suspect in Sadie’s death? Was that something he needed to know?
Unsure, she opted to confine her answer to the question at hand. “He does. But, like you, that is not a thought he enjoys.”
Suspendered Sentence (An Amish Mystery Book 4) Page 7