“Thank you, Martha. I can always depend on you,” Aunt Eleanor said.
Martha smiled triumphantly.
“Come on, Oliver,” I called as I headed to the door.
The Frenchie cocked his head as if to ask, “Seriously?”
I put my hands on my hip. “Oliver, let’s go.”
Grudgingly, he stood and waddled toward me with the same enthusiasm he had when walking into the vet’s office.
Martha shook her head. “You treat that dog like a person.”
I gave her a mock confused look. “He’s not?”
My aunt chuckled in her rocking chair.
Inside the Expedition, I spread the piece of paper across the steering wheel. There wasn’t an address to punch into the Expedition’s GPS. Oliver sat in the backseat and barked. “I guess we will just have to drive, Ollie.”
After five or six wrong turns, I wouldn’t say I found the farm as much as stumbled into it. It was located on a nameless gravel road way off a main road.
Black and white goats chewed on the edges of evergreen bushes on the other side of the log fence with chicken wire nailed to it. A hand-painted sign announced Wittmer Goat Farm. The barn in question stood just behind the goats. I pulled the Expedition to the side of the driveway. The farmhouse was much farther up the drive, at least a half mile. It was so far away it looked like a children’s playhouse. Considering the distance between the barn and house, I thought I could take a quick peek at the barn without the Wittmers ever knowing that I was there.
Oliver barked when I opened the car door.
“Okay, you can get out too, but don’t run off.”
He cocked his head at me as if to say, “When have I ever run away?”
I stepped into a snowdrift and was happy to have the ugly Amish boots protecting my feet. I tilted my head back to see the roof of the two story barn. It was no wonder that Eric broke his neck when he hit the ground. It was a long way down. While I surveyed the building, Oliver ate snow. A centurion oak tree without any of its leaves was to my back. That was where Aunt Eleanor said she was hosting the quilting frolic.
I walked around to the south side of the building, where Lily said she was standing when Eric fell. I tried to imagine the barn in an unfinished state with exposed rafters and beams. When I was a child, I’d gone to several barn raisings with my aunt. I’d been fascinated by how the men fearlessly walked on the beams so far off the ground, like they were walking on the sidewalk in downtown Millersburg.
Oliver gave a sharp bark and ducked under the low boughs of an evergreen bush growing close to the barn.
I spun around to find a pitchfork in my face.
“What are you doing on my farm?” an angry Amish man asked.
I took a huge step back. “I’m so sorry.” I held up my hands perp-style. “I was just admiring your barn. It looks so pretty against the snowy landscape.”
He lowered the pitchfork. “It does, doesn’t it?”
I took a deep breath. “The best I’ve seen in the county.”
He squinted at me. “Are you one of those Englischers going around and taking photos of Amish farms?”
Realizing that I still had my arms raised as if I were in the middle of a stickup, I lowered my hands. “I don’t even have a camera with me.”
“That’s gut,” he said. “I can’t stand those photographer types. I tell them they can take one photograph of my barn and they take thirty. How many do they need? Want to see the inside of the barn? It’s nice, too.”
“I would love to.”
Oliver’s stubby white tail wagged back and forth from where it peeked out from under the bush along with the back half of Oliver’s body.
“What is that?” the farmer asked.
I squatted down next to Oliver. “Come out, boy. It’s okay.”
Oliver didn’t budge.
“That’s Oliver. He’s my dog.”
The old man tugged his grizzled beard. “Your dog? He’s wearing clothes.”
I sighed.
He nodded his head at Oliver’s foot sticking out from under the bush. “Your dog will have to stay out here. He might scare the goats.”
I thought it more likely that the goats would scare Oliver, but I didn’t say that. I wanted the Frenchie to keep at least a remnant of his street cred.
“I’m John Wittmer,” the man said as he walked to the side entrance of the barn. “My family has owned this farm for three generations.” He jabbed his pitchfork into the frozen ground and let it stand there.
“That’s quite a legacy,” I said.
He sighed. “It is, but it seems that it will stop with me. I wasn’t blessed with any sons, only daughters.”
“Couldn’t you leave the farm to one of your daughters?”
He shook his head. “That’s Englischer thinking. It’s just not done in the Amish world.” He pushed back the barn’s heavy sliding door. Inside the barn, with all the dozen goats napping and standing in their pens, it was a good twenty degrees warmer than the outside.
I looked up and could clearly see the beams holding up the roof of the barn. Inside the barn, I imagined the workmen walking along those beams during the barn raising. “It’s an impressive barn.”
John shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Danki.”
“How long have you had this barn?”
He sucked up his front teeth. “We put this new barn up nearly fifteen years ago.”
“I heard that a young man fell off a barn in this part of the county around that time. Was that your barn?”
He straightened up and no longer appeared as relaxed. “Who told you that?”
“My aunt.”
“And who would that be?”
“Eleanor Lapp. She told me the story about Eric Schmidt,” I said, pressing my luck with the kindly farmer.
“I haven’t heard that name in a long time.” He folded his arm. “Why would Eleanor talk to you about Eric Schmidt?”
“Evelyn was a friend of my aunt’s,” I said. “And she recently passed away. Aunt Eleanor said her friend never recovered from Eric’s death.”
He nodded. “Ya. Evelyn was here often looking at the barn. Most of time, I pretended that I didn’t see her. She was a tortured soul. I gave her a lift home now and again. I felt sorry for her.”
“She thought that Eric’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Anger snapped into his eyes. “Evelyn was not well.” His face fell. “It was a very sad day for our family, too. Eric was to marry my Violet. It was not in Gotte’s plan. She found a new husband. That was who the Lord intended her to marry, but I can’t visit the barn without thinking of the day he fell, even after all this time.”
“Did you see Eric fall?” I asked.
He tugged on his beard. “Nee, I was inside one of the sheds, searching for more nails. We had been running low.”
“Do you think it was more than an accident?”
He led me out of the barn, and I followed him back to my car. “That was a long time ago.”
“But—”
He rested his hand on the handle of the pitchfork, which was still sticking out of the snow. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
I’d clearly overstayed my welcome.
“Oliver, let’s go,” I called.
The dog was a black and white blur as he flew to the car. There was no need to ask him twice.
Chapter Eleven
I headed back to Running Stitch feeling deflated. The only thing that I accomplished by visiting the Wittmer barn was almost being impaled by a pitchfork. I hoped that my aunt and Martha had had better luck in their mission of gathering the quilting circle ladies together.
And they had. When Oliver and I walked into the shop, all four women sat around my aunt’s quilt frame working together on a Goosefoot quilt. The pattern was aptly named because it looked like geese had waddled across the top of the quilt and left their webbed footprints behind. The sight took me directly b
ack to my childhood. How many times had I dashed into Running Stitch after school to find my aunt and her friends in this exact position?
Rachel smiled at me. “Hello, Angie, I put a tray of fresh strudel on the table beside the window there.”
Inwardly I groaned as the smell of the flakey pastry floated across the room. At this rate, I would have to roll back to Texas instead of fly. Ludvik would be brutal. There was no doubt about that.
Oliver made a beeline for the strudel, and I cut off a tiny piece. Okay, it was a hunk of strudel, but I planned to share it with Oliver, so it was a serving for two. I pulled one of the chairs away from the quilt frame and sat.
While I ate, I watched in awe as the deft needles of my aunt and her friends moved in and out of the fabric with ease. Their minute stitches were barely detectable in the fabric.
My aunt smiled at me. Her color was rosy again, which gave me relief. Being in her shop seemed to revive her some, and I knew the company of her quilts and friends was a big help as well. “How did your visit to the Wittmer barn go?”
“Besides almost getting stabbed to death with a pitchfork it, was perfectly fine,” I said.
“Angie, are you all right?” Rachel’s eyes were the size of her Amish pies.
“It was just a small misunderstanding. John Wittmer is actually a very friendly man.”
Martha muttered something under her breath.
My strudel was gone, and Oliver hadn’t gotten one bite. I sighed. “To be honest, I’m at a loss as to what to do next. I didn’t learn much at the barn. I know Cooper and Eric had some type of disagreement over the bike shop not long before Eric fell, but that doesn’t mean anyone killed Eric. Maybe it really was a terrible accident.”
Martha jabbed her needle into the quilt. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”
“I hoped to learn more from the Dudek brothers, but it was just more of the same.”
“The Dudek brothers?” Martha said. “You mean those two Englischers who own the bike shop on Thirty-nine?”
Aunt Eleanor nodded. “Angie and I went there this morning after boot shopping.”
Martha scowled. “You didn’t mention that before.”
Anna rethreaded her needle. “I’m glad that you went.” She turned to Martha and Rachel. “Yesterday, Violet told us those were the men Cooper and Eric planned go into business with. The boys were going to start an Amish bike shop here in Rolling Brook.”
“The Dudeks were at the barn raising,” Martha said.
Rachel dropped her needle. “They were at the barn raising? The one that Eric fell off of the roof during?” She plucked her wayward needle from the quilt’s top.
Martha squinted at her. “Ya. What barn raising would I mean?”
“What? Why? Are you sure?” I asked.
Martha sniffed. “Of course, I’m sure. There aren’t that many Englischers who come to barn raisings, so they are noticed.”
Anna wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t remember seeing them.”
“Neither do I,” my aunt said.
I ran through the conversation Aunt Eleanor and I had with the Dudek brothers in my head. They had said Cooper and Eric were to sign the business contract after the barn raising, but they hadn’t said they had been at the barn raising themselves. Had they forgotten or not mentioned it on purpose?
“You two were too busy with the quilting frolic.” Martha said. “Since I was younger, I was one of the girls helping serve the men. I saw the Dudek brothers not far from where the men set up their tool bench for the day.”
“What were they doing?” I asked.
“They were just watching. They were only there for a few minutes, because next time I looked their way, they were gone.”
“Oh,” I said, a little deflated. I’d hoped for something more incriminating.
Rachel placed her hands on her stomach. “What do you think that means, Angie?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted.
Aunt Eleanor clapped her hands. “I think we need go find out.”
Martha stepped around the counter. “Eleanor, the only place you should go is home.”
My aunt shook her head. “Don’t worry so much, Martha. After resting here, I’m feeling much better.”
Martha scowled.
Rachel struggled out of her chair. “I will wrap up the rest of the strudel for you and Angie.”
I inhaled the smell of pastry and fresh cherries. She was assuming that the strudel would make it all the way to my aunt’s home.
Twenty minutes later, when I turned into the bike shop’s parking lot for the second time that day, Aunt Eleanor and I again found the parking lot empty. I told Oliver to stay inside of the car.
Inside the shop, we found Glenn working on the dismantled bike in the front of the shop.
“Hey,” he said as he wiped his hands on a gray rag. “You’re back. Ready to buy a bike?”
I shook my head. “We have one more question about Eric Schmidt.”
The smile fell from his face as he stood. “What’s that?”
“We have an eye witness that can place you and your brother at the barn raising on the day Eric fell,” my aunt said. I hid a smile; she sounded like a cop on television.
“Who do you think you are? A detective?” Glenn asked.
“Just answer the question and we’ll leave,” I said.
Glenn rolled his eyes. “All right. I think I remember being there early. We were waiting to talk to Eric. He was upset about something and wanted to talk to us before the contract was signed. That was the only time we could see him before the meeting.”
“What did he say when you saw him?” I asked.
“The kid never came down from the barn. We waited for twenty minutes. We couldn’t stand around all day. We had a business to run.”
“Did you ask someone to get him?” I asked.
“You mean ask one of the Amish guys glaring at us? Trust me, they didn’t want us there as much as we didn’t want be there, so no, we didn’t ask anyone. We figured that we would talk to him that night. We never thought . . . ” he swallowed. “It never occurred to us that Eric wouldn’t make that meeting.”
Aunt Eleanor gripped her cane. “You have no idea what Eric was going to say.”
Glenn frowned. “It had to be something about the bike shop, but Eric refused to tell us on the phone. He called from his job at the factory and said he was afraid someone would overhear.” He shoved his rag into his hip pocket. “Now, if you aren’t going to buy a bike, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I have work to do.”
Aunt Eleanor and I rode in silence back to her house. As I parked the SUV beside the ranch home, I asked, “What do you think this all means?”
She gazed out the window with her thin, fragile hands in her lap. “What I’ve always thought it meant since I received Evelyn’s quilt.” She paused. “Eric Schmidt was murdered.”
Chapter Twelve
I tossed and turned all night, thinking about what my aunt said. Was Eric murdered? And who had murdered him? Cooper or Ira? The Dudeks? All of them in a giant conspiracy, maybe? I was in over my head. Maybe I should call that sheriff who had plucked me off the ground in front of the courthouse and let him sort it out. He’d laugh me back to Texas.
On my third morning in Holmes County, Aunt Eleanor was up before the sun. It was a relief to see her moving around the kitchen, even if her steps were halted. Oliver sat at her feet next to the propane-powered stove, watching intently as she flipped a piece of bacon in a cast iron skillet.
“Are you feeling better today?” I asked.
“Ya, but it will be gut to have a day of rest at home. I may have overdone it yesterday. Gott reminds me that I don’t have the strength I once did.”
“You need to rest more.” I bit my lip. I wanted to ask my aunt to move to Texas. I could take care of her there. I knew she would never go. She’d lived her whole life in Holmes County and most of it as an Amish woman. At her age, moving to a big ci
ty like Dallas, especially my highrise apartment downtown, would be too much for her. And she wasn’t alone here. She had the ladies from the quilting circle and her whole community around her. One of the aspects I admired most about the Amish was how they cared for their own. At least that is what most of them did. I had a feeling someone didn’t care much for Eric Schmidt.
In my pocket, my cell phone rang. It was fully charged from being attached to the car so much the day before. “It’s probably Mom about the wedding and an ice sculpture update, though it’s a little early.”
My aunt only smiled.
I took the phone into the living room. The readout was a 330 number. That wasn’t from Texas, but from Holmes County. “Hello,” I said.
“This is Art,” the voice said over the line.
I blinked. “Art? Security guard Art?”
I could almost hear him grind his teeth. “Yes.”
“How’d you get this number?” I asked.
“You gave it to me when you hit the buggy sign, remember?”
I winced. “Oh, right. Am I going to have to pay for that after all?”
“No, that’s not why I’m calling. The judge wants to see you.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know why. He only asked me to call you. He wants to see you at the courthouse this afternoon.”
“Why can’t he speak to me on the phone?”
He grunted. “Are you coming or not? He wants to know.”
“I am, but I’m not coming alone.”
He snorted. “You make it sound like the judge is up to something. Let me tell you, Judge Mueller is the finest, most upstanding man I know, and you should be happy he’s willing to give you a few minutes of his time.”
Was Art in charge of the reelection campaign?
“I’ll be there,” I said and hung up.
I weighed my options. Aunt Eleanor needed to stay home today. Her going was out of the question. Rachel was pregnant. Martha thought I was on a wild goose chase. That left me with Anna.
“Angie, was that your mother?” My aunt stood in the doorway to the living room. “You sounded upset.”
Plainly Murder (Amish Shop Quilt Mysteries .5) Page 8