A Killer Carol

by Laura Bradford

  And for some, like the couple now smiling at each other more than the tree, it was still light and happy and promising.

  She wanted that feeling back. She needed that feeling back.

  The how to make that happen part was the issue.

  Mary and Daniel Esch were still dead, still murder victims. Jakob was still the detective tasked with solving the case. She still had something in her possession she knew he needed to see. And as busy as she’d been all day, and as troubled as she’d been since finally getting to read the letter Ruth had pretended not to know about, the fact that an entire workday had come and gone without so much as a call or text from him had not escaped her. Even when she’d tried to reach him to tell him about Annie, he hadn’t picked up. Instead, she’d called the station’s main desk and asked if he was in, and when she was told he couldn’t be disturbed, she told the dispatcher that she was sending Annie over and that Jakob would want to talk to her right away.

  Yet when Annie left the station an hour later, he hadn’t called, hadn’t thanked her for insisting Annie speak to him . . .

  Something was wrong; she could feel it in her bones. And while she knew the smartest, most effective thing to do was march across the street and ask him outright, the fact that she was in possession of something that more than earned Ruth and Samuel a legitimate spot on Jakob’s suspect list kept her feet planted right where they were.

  A chime, indicating the arrival of a text, sent her scrambling through her purse for the source. Any hope she had that it was Jakob, though, was quickly drowned out by the relief that it wasn’t.

  Can you stop by Gussmann’s on your way home and pick up a gallon of milk? I’ve got some chocolate chip cookies in the oven that would go mighty well with a glass.

  She scrolled up, read the text again, and, dropping her phone back into her purse, turned right toward the welcomed distraction.

  * * *

  * * *

  Tugging her scarf higher onto her cheeks, Claire crossed the street just beyond Yoder’s Furniture, her ankle boots making a staccato beat against the cobblestones as she hurried to beat Al Gussmann’s seven o’clock close. A glance inside the window yielded the empty aisles she expected to see at this time of day, as well as the stocking cart near the back counter that would be used to return the occasional item ruled out by a customer at the last minute.

  With a gloved hand, she pinched the door handle and pushed her way inside the warm interior, her gaze lifting instantly to the mirror that provided Al with a view of the front door and her a view of the now-empty register area.

  “Welcome to Gussmann’s.”

  She craned her head around until she spotted the scrap of thinning black hair rising up above the top shelf in the soup aisle. “It’s just me, Al. Aunt Diane is baking cookies and she needs a gallon of milk.”

  “You know where it is.” The top of Al’s head disappeared temporarily, only to appear along with the rest of him in the milk aisle, his wide forehead glistening in the overhead light. “Saw Harold a little while ago. He said he was hopping all day long. Same for you?”

  “It was nuts,” she said, reaching inside the refrigerator. “But a really, really good nuts.”

  “And you were on your own, right? On account of the funeral for that Amish couple?”

  She pulled out a gallon and let the door swing closed behind her. “I was. But yesterday and today was just the viewing part. Tomorrow is the actual service and burial.”

  “Is that why you’re still here, almost two hours after closing?” Al wiped his hands down the sides of his logo’d apron and then pulled it up and over his head. “Trying to do all the restocking and bookkeeping stuff you couldn’t get done with customers underfoot?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Everything ready to go for the festival next week?”

  “I think so.” She stepped aside to let him pass and then followed him over to the register. “All that’s really left now is reconfirming everyone one more time, checking in with someone about one very important detail for the Living Nativity, and trying not to revert back to biting my nails the way I did when I was a kid and worried about some test or the other.”

  He rang up the milk, took her money, and counted the change back into her palm. “I know you, and I know you’ll worry about every detail until the last minute, but I also know—because I know you—that this event is going to be a success. I don’t think a single local customer I’ve had the past few weeks has left this store without telling me how excited they are for this thing. It’s like the adults are the kids this season, eagerly looking forward to the big night. Only instead of wanting to know what Santa brings, they’re wanting to celebrate the real reason for the season with their neighbors.”

  “But no pressure, right?” she said, laughing.

  “I didn’t intend it to be that.” The creases beside Al’s eyes burrowed in deep. “I really said it just so you know how electric your idea has been throughout this whole town.”

  She hiked her purse back onto her shoulder and took her aunt’s milk from the man’s outstretched hand. “I know you were. This is just me being me, worried I’ll let everyone down if it doesn’t live up to whatever image they have in their heads.”

  “Don’t be. Just do the things you showed us at the last business owners’ meeting and it’ll be a smashing success. And know that Harold, Sandra, Drew, and all the rest of us are ready to do whatever you need that night.”

  “Thanks, Al. You guys really are like a second family for me.”

  “We’re a tight-knit bunch, that’s for sure. And I don’t see that changing so long as business keeps doing well across the board.” He moved out from behind the register and walked with her to the front door. “I’m always wary someone will give up or move on to another venture, leaving me with the task of finding just the right fit. Like I did with you.”

  At the door, she turned back to her landlord, her curiosity aroused. “Was there interest from someone else in taking over that space?”

  “There was, but nothing too serious. Fortunately for me, though, you being Diane Weatherly’s kin made it a little easier to slide you in. But even with that, had it been the Millers’ place that had opened up back then, I’d have had more than a few pairs of eyes on me, just waiting for me to hand them something they could try to sue me over.”

  “Sue you over? I don’t understand.”

  Al checked his watch, compared it to the clock on the wall, and then, looking up and down Lighted Way, flipped his OPEN sign to CLOSED. “I pick and choose my tenants more than I should by law. But that’s because I like the mix we have, not only with the kinds of shops but also with the shopkeepers who are running them. The people who keep this street alive with their spending dollars are here because they’re fascinated with the Amish. So I don’t just lease to anyone willing to pay the rent I’m asking. I want tenants who appreciate the pull of this place for more than just a way to turn a fast buck. Because if that’s all it is, the folks who vacation here will spot that a mile away. Beyond that, I want tenants who will see the success of this street as a team effort, and I want each shop or restaurant to be a unique experience. Someone wants an Amish-made rag doll, they go to your place. They want a book about Amish culture, they go to Drew’s bookshop. They want to try out a tool the Amish use, they go to Glick’s. They want some brown buttered noodles like the Amish eat, they go to Taste of Heaven(ly). They want to order an Amish-made bedroom set, they go to Yoder’s. They want to indulge in a little shoo fly or apple pie straight from an Amish kitchen, thankfully Ruth’s place is still open. Watering that down with seconds and thirds of the same businesses we already have would come to hurt all of us in the end.”

  Shifting the gallon of milk to her other hand, she considered Al’s words against a very different conversation. “I wish you’d been standing beside me last night when this guy told
me the Amish have a stranglehold on business opportunities along this street. His statement caught me by surprise so much that I just sort of stood there, dumbfounded. When I recovered enough to point out the fact that a good half of the shops here are owned by English, the conversation had already moved in a completely different direction.”

  “Eh, just ignore them like I do,” Al said, scrunching his nose as if he’d come in contact with a bad smell. “Some folks like to grasp at straws. That’s just the way they’re made. And folks like that? They don’t want to hear reason, don’t want to hear facts and truth. They just believe what they want to believe because it gives them whatever justification they need for whatever shortcoming they have or whatever wrong they’ve committed.”

  “So you’ve heard this before, then, I take it?”

  “Only once, and it about knocked me over. So I did say the things you wish you’d said last night. But it didn’t matter. You ever heard that expression, Never let the facts get in the way of a good lie? Well, that way of thinking was in full force that day, and it didn’t take me all that long to realize there was no reasoning to be done with that one.” Al shook his head slowly, methodically. “I know there’s no stranglehold on this street, you know it, Harold knows it, Drew knows it, Sandra knows it, and the Amish know it, too. Heck, anyone with working eyes can walk in and out of every shop on this street and know it for themselves. That’s a good enough answer for me.”

  “Me, too.” Glancing outside, she shivered in anticipation of the vast temperature change awaiting her out on the sidewalk. “Well, I guess I better get this milk out to my aunt. Have a nice evening, and I’ll see—wait! I just thought of something I wanted to ask you if you have a minute?”

  He paused his hand on the door and grinned. “Seeing as how you’re still standing inside my store, I’d say I have a minute,” he teased.

  “I’ll make it quick, I promise. Can you tell me whose name is on the Shoo Fly lease? Is it Ben’s dad or the family as a whole?”

  “Shoo Fly?” Al echoed, pulling a face. “Why? Is there some sort of issue that I don’t know about?”

  She waved away his question so fast she nearly dropped her purchase on the ground. “No, no, not at all! I love being alley-mates with Shoo Fly. Not only do they make my place smell amazing in open-door season, I also reap the rewards of being the next shop on the street for some seriously satiated and happy customers.”

  “Oh. Okay, good. Getting a complaint against Ruth in any form would’ve been a first.”

  “Against Ruth?”

  “Yep. Shoo Fly is hers and Samuel’s now—lease and all. They took it over the first of the month.” Leaning against the door, Al scratched at the crown of his head. “Most people don’t know, but I let her stay through November without a lease. But I wasn’t ready to give up on her yet. I knew—or rather hoped—that she and Samuel would come to the exact decision they did.”

  “Who had the lease originally?” she asked.

  “The father—Jeb. He owned the lease, Ruth did the baking, of course, and Benjamin and Eli pitched in wherever they were needed. But Jeb is getting up in years, and since Ruth was set to get married a week or so after his lease was up for renewal, he decided to let it go.” Al dropped his hand to his mouth, his chin. “I’m not sure who was more heartsick over that—me or Ruth. Shoo Fly Bake Shoppe, as you know, is a big pull for this entire street. The thought of losing that for the rest of us was”—he whistled long and low—“daunting, to say the least. I put out a few quiet feelers to see who might want to come into that same space and do the same thing, but even the most talented of those lacked the complete package that was Ruth and Shoo Fly.

  “So that’s when I let her stay through November—with Ruth at the helm until the wedding, and then that younger one they’ve had in there ever since.”

  “Hannah. She’s Eli’s sister-in-law.”

  “Ahhhh, okay, that makes sense now. I thought she looked a little like your Esther around the eyes . . .” Al tried for a smile but cleared his throat instead. “She’s good, but she’s not Ruth.”

  Claire half nodded, half shrugged. “Yet. She’s still young, still feeling her way. But she’s got some pretty amazing specialties of her own. Like her candies and her toffees and even her chocolate caramel pie. The returning tourists just need to give her a try the way the new ones do.”

  “That’s good to hear, and something you might want to mention to Ruth or even Samuel at the next business owners’ meeting, seeing as how they signed a twelve-month lease with me on December first.” Al motioned down the street toward Heavenly Treasures’ end. “Maybe encouraging folks toward Hannah’s specialties before they even walk in the door will help get business back up in the vicinity of where they need it to be in order to keep from drowning under two separate leases.”

  Two leases . . .

  Double the business expenses . . .

  A drop in traffic at Shoo Fly, a decrease in custom orders at Yoder’s . . .

  No wonder Samuel was feeling stressed.

  This time, the shiver that moved through her had nothing to do with the dropping temperatures waiting for her on the other side of Al’s door. No, this chill was the kind that was completely immune to heavy coats, thick scarves, and wooly mittens.

  “Yeah . . . okay . . . I . . . I’ll mention it to them when I see them,” she murmured. “Maybe they can put up some new signs or talk up Hannah’s candy in an ad or something.”

  Al’s feet shifted forward, prompting her to look up as his hand came down on her shoulder. “Is everything okay, Claire? You’re not looking so good all of a sudden.”

  No, everything isn’t okay. I’m afraid Ruth may have acted out of desperation or anger or fear . . .

  But she couldn’t say that aloud. Not to Al, anyway. Instead, she hugged the gallon of milk to her chest and nudged her chin toward the door. “Just dreading the walk back to Diane’s car.”

  “There’s cookies at the other end, though, right?”

  She laughed in spite of the fear pressing against her heart. “My own little personal pot of gold.”

  “We all need one of those at times, don’t we?” he mused, opening the door.

  “Indeed.” She stepped out onto the front stoop and then turned around. “What’s yours?”

  “My pot of gold?” At her nod, he grinned. “I’ve got two. The first has my slippers, my remote, and my recliner. The second is a sandy beach—somewhere tropical and cut off from the rest of the world.”

  “That sounds mighty nice . . .”

  “Maybe next week, after the festival is over, you should try one of those for yourself. You’ve more than earned the recharge.”

  She was pretty sure she nodded, maybe even offered some lighthearted retort as she finally made her way onto the cobblestones, but it wasn’t real. Real was the fear ushered in by Mary’s letter to Ruth and invited to stay by the barely dry ink on the bottom of Shoo Fly Bake Shoppe’s lease.

  Chapter 16

  Claire was less than twenty feet away from Diane’s car when the front door of the police department swung open and Jakob stepped out and onto the mirror image of every front porch up and down Lighted Way. The mere sight of his broad shoulders in the disappearing lobby light at his back stole a quiet sigh from her lips.

  Sometimes, when she caught him at just the right angle, she was instantly transported back to the moment she first laid eyes on him in the front-page picture of the Heavenly Times—the sandy blond hair cut short along the sides, the quiet confidence he’d seemed to wear every bit as well as the light blue dress shirt he’d sported, the hint of those dimples playing at the edges of his smile . . .

  Switching the gallon of milk to her other hand, she had to smile at the memory of the way she’d stared at that picture, momentarily distracted by the handsome face. Little had she known how important that new detective from the bi
g city would become in her life, how he’d quietly, yet oh so definitively, change her world in so many ways.

  She stood there, in the shadows cast by the lamppost just beyond Glorious Books, and quietly drank in the man he was now compared to the one she’d met inside the police station not long after she’d seen his photo. That day, armed with Aunt Diane’s certainty that Jakob’s return to Heavenly would be unwelcome by his childhood family, Claire had set aside her own bent toward shyness and stopped by the department with a welcome gift. That fairly innocuous blue and green striped gift bag—with homemade candles and a framed photograph of winter’s Lighted Way—had taken him by surprise and helped kick off the sweet friendship that had quickly ensued. Together, they’d helped each other heal from past hurts: hers from the confidence-crushing pain of a failed marriage, and his from a severing of relationships mandated by a culture he gave up everything to protect. Even early on, she’d have done anything to have gone back in time and somehow spared herself and Jakob the pain they’d endured. But as they grew and learned and helped each other turn lemons into lemonade, their friendship had become so much more—something bigger and better and more beautiful than she could’ve ever imagined.

  And just like that, the urge to step into his arms and breathe in his scent and his nearness propelled her forward one step, two steps, three—

  Jakob reached into the pocket of his winter coat, pulled out his phone, and tapped a few buttons, prompting her to fish her own hand inside her purse in anticipation of his call. But when he finished tapping and held the device to his ear, her phone didn’t vibrate, didn’t light up.

  “Hey, it’s Jakob. I got your picture, and all I can say is, wow! Gorgeous.”

  Aware of the sudden thudding inside her ears, she reclaimed her spot inside the darkness, his unmistakable excitement, as much as the words flowing from his mouth, making it difficult to breathe.

  “Yes, yes . . . definitely. This is everything we both want, you know? It’s a million times better than everything I’d imagined.”